Shadows
by EtchedInDiamond
Summary: There's a new supernatural menace in town, and once again its Harry Dresden's, Chicago's only professional wizard, job to stop it. But a mysterious man with a shoot first, ask questions later mentality shows up, demanding to see his two unruly sons. Throw in deadly demonic assassins, cute killer blondes, and two furious Knights of the Cross, things start to get a little hectic...
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Wow. I haven't been on this site since forever. Consider this a brief return, if you will. For those of you who follow my other stories, I don't know how to express how sorry I am. Life caught up with me, inspiration dried up, and pieces like Benigno Numine just stopped. I can't promise that they'll be updated, but I will try my best. I really will.**

**This is really an experiment, nothing more. I don't know if I'll make it a grand epic (I can't seem to follow through with those though) or just a short little story, but judging by the response we'll see where this goes. I love both the Dresden Files and Supernatural, and they seem to fit well together. Partly inspired by my own imagination and partly by several fics in this category. I hope you enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own The Dresden Files or Supernatural, unfortunately.**

* * *

I'll never forget the smell of death.

Well. Depends on what kind of death it is, really. If the victim was killed in a car crash, the roasted skin gives off a sickly burnt but somewhat sweet smell. It's one of those things that makes a Fourth of July barbecue never quite the same. If the body was left to decompose over a long period of time, it's overly sickly-sweet, gag-inducing no matter how many times you smell it. Others have said that it's like rotting chicken or turkey, or a little like road kill. Either way, you recognize it the moment it passes under sniffing distance. Oh, and when you die, your bowels decide to dump whatever's in there in one smelly, undignified mess. Pretty, I think not.

"There isn't much romance when it comes to death," I muttered. "It's dark, it's ugly, and it's _there._ Always."

Lieutenant Karrin Murphy scowled up at me. "Jeez. Aren't we all existentialist tonight. Couldn't get a date?"

I grimaced. "Don't ask."

My whole death spiel found inspiration after a particularly morbid Valentine's Day afternoon with our friendly neighborhood mortician Butters. It involved copious amounts of beer, pizza, and gruesomely violent action flicks_._ Was it healthy? Probably not. But was it worth it?

Yippee ki-_yes_, mother—

"Dresden!" Murphy hissed. "Snap out of it!"

Visions of John McClane pitching Professor Snape out of a skyscraper window vanished in a swirl of nostalgia and disappointment. I blinked. "What's up?"

Murphy's blue eyes were glacier cold. "I was asking about your professional opinion on the murder, but judging from the blank look on your face, I'd say you chucked 'professional' out of the window the moment you stepped in here."

I snickered. "Window. Funny."

Murphy just stared.

"What? Don't tell me you haven't seen _Die Hard._"

Not even a blink.

"Karrin. I'm genuinely offended. You're a cop, which makes that even-!"

She socked me in the arm. I yelped, nursing my right deltoid. "What was that for?"

"Of course I've seen _Die Hard_, you idiot. Was going to let that one slide if not for the cop stereotype."

"What!? That wasn't a stereotype! I was simply making an assumption based on the fact that John McClane being a big city cop made it your kind of movie."

Murphy rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Now, before you geek out on me here, I'd like to remind you that we are at a scene of a murder. In Chicago. Our city."

That sobered me up a bit.

Chicago is my home. Always has been. I wasn't born here; I actually came here in my early twenties seeking a new life and, most importantly, a job. After a series of unusual occupations and a stint at an investigation firm, I landed my own PI office when I was twenty-three. Which was great, I mean come on. Not many guys can brag about being a legitimate private eye at that age. But of course, the ordinary never seemed to fit me well, and me being Chicago's only professional wizard is a good deterrent for average folk. But despite the fact that most of the smiles I get from reasonably attractive women are ones of pity and ridicule, this city is mine.

I swore to protect it. Hell, I'm getting paid to do it. As a Warden of the White Council, it's my duty to protect the citizens of this region from supernatural ne'er-do-wells and other veritable nasties. So, when something like this turns up, I've an obligation to see it right. Not solely because it's my job.

Because it's the right thing to do.

I knelt down beside the victim, or what was left of her.

Something had torn her apart. Pieces of her were strewn across the living room floor: legs, arms, torso, skull, bloody scraps of each. They weren't too spread out; whatever it was that attacked her did a little slice-and-dice and scrammed. Still, it was pretty grisly, and I know grisly. I looked down and realized the block of flesh beside my foot was actually a third of the girl's face; a single dead eye stared up at me as if in accusation. I shuddered.

The apartment was small and cozy, perfect for a single girl. As far as I could tell, she kept it rather conservative. No flowery decorations, antique vases, useless fake plants, yada yada. A small sofa, a white floor rug, a short desk bearing several fashion magazines, and a plasma screen TV was the entirety of her living room. A bright computer screen getting violated by two tech guys caught my eye, and I could see the promising eHarmony match even from my vantage point. She seemed like a simple girl looking for love in a big city. Undeserving of such an awful death, but hey. I don't make the rules. As the cops chatted about possible motives and last week's awful baseball game, I noticed the strange oppression of shadows surrounding us. A chill shot down my back.

Murphy came beside me and surveyed the scene. "Name was Meredith Rodgers. In her twenties, studying to be a hair stylist. Just moved in after ditching small-town America. Good kid, decent grades, but just wanted…more."

"Damn." I closed my eyes. I let myself grieve for the girl, despite just finding out about her short and tragic life. Death had no conscience, that much was clear.

"The doors were locked. Windows, too. The alarms were set to go off if something so much as spit on the property. Neighbors noticed the smell and found her like that almost two days later. The entrances were firmly shut though, even after all that time. There were no signs of entry, no signs of a struggle. The killer just popped in, cut her up, and vanished. Higher-ups are stumped."

"That's a shocker."

She allowed herself a small grin, but the worried look returned to her eyes.

"This is the second murder of this sort in the past month. The first happened to a middle-aged man in his home. Same shebang."

"Any more surprises, Murph?" I scowled at the remains, as if they'd tell me their secrets if I scowled them into submission.

"Their hearts are gone."

Mine did a little tumble at those words. I stopped, turning my head towards her but not quite meeting her eyes. "What?"

"Whatever did them in, it tore out their hearts."

A cold sweat ran down my back. The mental picture of missing hearts conjured up old memories I'd rather leave stored in the inaccessible region of my brain. My mouth lost all moisture, and I licked my lips. "You don't say."

"I'm a little creeped out, Dresden."

"Yeah. You and me both."

"And you know what it means when I'm creeped out."

I nodded. "You're thinking this is more along my specialty."

She looked at me. Her face was firm and cold, jaw set. Murphy's eyes were chips of arctic ice once more, and I could see the fury and guilt churning behind them. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, but that was like trying to get a dog to quit barking. It was against her nature. So, I swallowed the words down and dropped her gaze.

We waited until most of the cops and forensics unit cleared out; Murphy gave them the thumbs-up and told them I was here on SI business. Need-to-know basis, and all that. We had the apartment empty in ten minutes, and only then did I get to work.

"The killer was fast and efficient." I said, crouching by the remains. "But that doesn't make them supernatural by any means."

Murphy nodded in assent. "True, but go on."

I sighed. "The evisceration was lightning quick and surgically precise. I mean, you could say that a guy marched in here through reliable, building-wide electronic security and locked doors and windows wielding a freshly-sharpened _katana_, but that's kind of a stretch." I reached down and slowly tipped a piece of the severed thigh face-up. "But the cuts…I'd say they were claws. And the piercing at the sternum…" I motioned at the torso, where a gory hole had been punched through the center of the victim's chest. "It matches several other claw puncture wounds I've seen over the years. The girl got carved into confetti in a matter of seconds, I'd say."

Murphy frowned. "So we've either got a Feudal-era Japanese samurai with a heart fetish running around midtown Chicago or a multi-clawed baddie that can apparently bypass conventional security."

I snorted. "Hey, I tried."

She smiled, but it was a weary one. "I know. But this isn't the first murder. And I don't know about you, but I'm leaning towards the latter on that one."

We drowned in the silence for a grim moment. Realizing that there was still something out there killing innocent people even after years of trying to stop just that was a hard pill to swallow. I mean, I didn't ride a frigging _T-Rex_ through a horde of zombies and their über-powerful necromancer masters to have another sadistic, no-life monster tear an innocent girl to pieces. Christ, Mouse's kibble was bigger than some of the parts we found.

But as I glanced at Murphy, I couldn't imagine what kind of pain she was going through. She was vanilla mortal, unlike me and 99% of the company I unfortunately keep. Murphy was an honest-to-God Chicago cop (a nominal Catholic, to boot) who wanted the best for her citizens. It was a simple creed, one every law enforcement agent should live to uphold every second of their working lives. But the thing was, not every police officer knew the kind of things my closest friend did. Not even Rawlins, or the whole of SI. She knew that there were a lot scarier things than drug lords and kingpins, things that go bump in the dark and could potentially knock your house down in the process. She knew they existed, and with all her savvy know-how and cop-going experience, there was little she could do. She was a little pebble in the grand scheme of things, tiny and insignificant. A well-seasoned and tough pebble, but a pebble nonetheless. Knowing the things she did, it was a miracle she didn't go down a dark alley one night and never appear again.

But the thing is, Chicago's got more than one guardian.

And I'm there for her.

Always will be.

"Lieutenant Karrin Murphy," I said quietly, full of promise. "I swear on my life I'll get this sick bastard."

"I hope so, Harry." Her voice was barely qualified as a whisper. "I really hope so."

I took her by the hand for a fraction of a second, just a light touch. The feel of my palm against hers seem to give her new strength, and I could sense her steeling herself, pushing away the inner pain and morphing into her no-nonsense cop form. "Alright," she said, after a deep breath. "What's next?"

"I activate my Third Sight."

She smirked. "You enjoyed that."

I smiled. "Don't judge me. I grew up on a healthy diet of comic books."

The Third Sight was known all throughout mythology, albeit through different names and alibis. The Evil Eye, the third sight, etc. It was a near-universal method of magical investigation with strong Egyptian roots (then again, a good portion of Eurasian spellwork had Egyptian ties), and us wizards' way of seeing the "true" nature of things. It revealed to us certain aspects of an aura, object, or personality invisible to the naked eye, and often involved in magical tampering of some sort. I braced myself, arms ready to grasp onto Murphy for support in case things went out of whack. If one looked at the Wrong Thing using their Sight, the end result usually involved a hospital ward and/or cemetery. I once heard about a White Council member who foolishly used her Sight to investigate an ancient Incan burial ground and ended up blabbering about various Cajun recipes and dark skull gods for the rest of her adult life.

I swallowed nervously, closed my eyes, and opened them once more.

The walls were bathed in black light, or some similar substance, at least. An inky blackness permeated the living room like oil stains. A deep-seated sensation of utter _wrongness_ settled in my stomach and pushed upwards, threatening to send the Whopper I'd munched on earlier over my shoes. Indistinct whispers darted past my ears, always out of reach and understanding. The very air seemed to pulsate with dark magic. The thing that killed Meredith left traces of its energy behind, energy that was gorged on darkness and evil. I took a deep breath, and I immediately had to swallow bile back down my throat. The stench was beyond repulsive. I gulped audibly. This was some serious black magic here. The black liquid oozed down the walls, and I suddenly realized that the extent of it carved a nigh-indistinguishable path against the olive backdrop of the wallpaper. Whatever this thing was, it was operating through the walls. I frowned. I reluctantly leaned closer, and I found out that the whispers were coming from the darkness. The pieces fell into place in my mind with a click.

No. Not just the walls.

The shadows.

"Hell's bells," I whispered, my throat hoarse. "It used the shadows."

"Pardon?" Murphy asked.

"It used the shadows. That's why it was able to get through the alarm and the locked entrances. It wasn't operating through mundane means." I stood up, clearing my Sight and pinching the bridge of my nose. It felt like someone was driving two icepicks against my temples. "You're right. Whatever killed Meredith, it wasn't any samurai."

"What is it, then?"

I sighed. "I…I don't know."

Murphy looked genuinely surprised, which I took as an unintended compliment. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is: I don't know. I'll have to take it up with Bob later."

Murphy stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. She looked seriously pissed, but I suspected her anger wasn't directed at me. Hopefully. "Do you have anything? Anything at all?"

I ran a hand down my face. I felt eighty years old.

"Tired?"

"Tired doesn't even begin to describe it, Murph. Anyways, I think I have a pretty good picture of the perp, but you're not going to like it."

Murphy scoffed. "When do I ever?"

I opened one eye and winked at her. "Good point. But this thing's Bad. I mean, really bad. Its mere presence left vestiges of potent dark magic only a highly-experienced warlock could possess, or something even stronger."

"What's stronger than a really powerful warlock?"

I shrugged. "Various things. All of them nasty pieces of work, demons and such, and ones you don't want to meet naked in a dark alley."

She wrinkled her nose. "Yuck. Which one of us is the naked one?"

"Either way, it's not pretty."

I was prepared for the punch, but I took it. "I'm serious, Murphy. This thing is bad news. It's old, it's strong, and it's out there as we speak."

Her face took on that cold mask again. "Then we'll have to take it out before it kills more civilians."

I nodded. "I wholeheartedly agree. But for now, we have to have a plan. I'll call Michael and Thomas tomorrow and ask if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary."

"And tonight?"

I smiled. "I'm going to have a chat with my talking skull."

**XXXXXX**

"Bob," I called, shutting the trapdoor behind my head with a slam. "Wakey-wakey."

I waved a hand and muttered an incantation. The candles arrayed in several spaces in my basement suddenly flickered to life, and my personal wizard laboratory was bathed in a solemn light. Atop a shelf, a bleached human skull shivered, and two dancing fire-lights burst into existence behind its eye sockets.

"It's 11:30. Post meridiem. You've either got a case you're too simple-minded to solve by yourself or you've got some sizzling romance novel for me to feast my eyes on."

I shook my head. "Haven't been to the local Wal-Mart yet, Bob, so it's a no go on the latter."

He sighed. "Guess we can't have everything."

"You said it." I walked past him and rifled through my collection of books on magical lore that I've managed to salvage through the years. "Hey, Bob."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Happen to know about anything that can travel through shadows?"

"Hmmm. Numerous things, none of them particularly easy on the eyes. There's a reason they use the shadows to hide." He made a clicking sound with a tongue he didn't have. "Let's see here: there are a lot of malevolent Choctaw spirits that use the shadows as sources of power, but that's just through hearsay. I don't confess to be an expert on North American magical history. Other than that, there's been a lot of urban legend involving 'shadow people', or spirits that travel under the guise of a shadow and kill hallucinogen-crazed teenagers."

I rolled my eyes. "Other than mushroom-induced phenomena, what else is there?"

Bob was quiet for a moment. "Well. There's one other thing." Dun-dun-_dunnn!_

I paused in my search and gave the skull a pointed look. "Might as well go for broke and rent out a top hat and organ, man."

"Chicks dig top hats."

"Be serious, Bob. What other thing?"

"Uh, its nothing."

"Bob."

"Nothing, boss! Just sit back, relax, pop in that DVD Thomas let you borrow-"  
I arched an eyebrow. I reached under the table and pulled out a hammer.

"Whoa there, mighty Thor. Let's not get crazy here."

"Bob. Speak up."

"Fine. Look. There's an ancient Zoroastrian demon called a daeva. It's a being of ill omen, maladies, and often violent deaths. It operates through the shadows, so it could fit your mystery monster."

I dropped the hammer and sat down next to my almost finished model of Chicago, or at least a very miniature version of it. "Huh. Zoroastrian, you say." Zoroastrianism was an ancient Middle Eastern religion that predated Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. It had strong monotheistic semblances, and was supposed by many historians to be the inspiration for the Big Three in the first place. I frowned. "Why were you so nervous to tell me about it?"

Bob scoffed. "I wasn't nervous. I was merely skeptical. My knowledge of magic goes back to Ancient Greece, boss, and even then these guys were pretty old."

"How old?"

"I mean 2nd millennium BCE old. They were reject gods to the ancient Iranians, harbingers of chaos and disorder. They're incapable of discerning right from wrong, and throughout the millennia they've sort of regressed into these…animals. Yeah, bloodthirsty animals I guess. But that's just hearsay."

"What isn't hearsay, Bob?" I said exasperatedly.

"98% of what comes out of my lipless mouth. I'm telling you, boss, daevas are bad news. Most of what I know comes from Herodotus' _The Histories, _not some wizened old sorcerer, but from what I've read…"

I groaned and leaned back. Great. That's just _great. _And I had to track this thing down. I made myself some coffee and recounted the crime scene to Bob. He was silent for the whole time, which was new. Normally he'd make some lewd comment if I mentioned a female secretary or even Murphy, but now…he was completely quiet.

"Cut her up, you say?"

"Like chicken."

"Might want to sit this one out, Harry."

I started, as if he'd slapped me on the face. "Excuse me?"

"Look, I know this is your city and all, and you have some moral obligation to protect its citizens-"

I worked my jaw. "I do it because it's the only home I have."

"Fine. I didn't mean anything by it, but these things only need to feed once in a while. Just wait it out until it leaves. You work too hard, anyways."

I stood, glaring at Bob. The fact that he was going to pussy out on me really pissed me off. This wasn't Bob. "You want me to batten down the hatches and hide while this monster kills innocent people? C'mon. We've faced some pretty bad things before, Bob. Who's to say we can't do it this time?"

"I don't know, boss. Daevas are beings of dark magic. Old gods of before. They're almost naagloshii bad."

Naagloshii. Ancient skinwalkers of the American Midwest who were supposedly prehistoric messengers of the Great Spirit before they were royally booted from the light side. They were old, like these daevas, and they were crazy strong from what I'd heard. I took a deep breath, some of the situation's gravity sinking in. "I get it. It's powerful. But I won't back down, Bob. Not now, not ever. Not when people are getting killed."

Bob sighed. "One day your goodwill's going to get you roasted, Harry. You know what that means? I might end up in some tacky Halloween store for the rest of eternity."

I snorted. "If only."

I started up the steps, extinguishing the candles and shutting the subbasement under me. I peeled out of my clothes and took a long, hot shower. It was almost a miracle, getting hot water this late at night. Me being a wizard tended to screw up anything manmade and functioning, so for the past week I had to grit my teeth through freezing cold water. The relaxing heat seemed to be a relief from the night's unfortunate events. My muscles uncoiled, and I exhaled. The steam curled around me, and everything felt so _good._

I was glad that I was able to take that shower, because the things that happened later in the week would end up being scarred into my psyche for the rest of my cursed, miserable life.

**XXXXXX**

I opened the door.

"Harry," Michael Carpenter said. "We need to talk."

I stared at him for a moment. Michael was one of my closest friends, but he usually never stops by my place. I flicked through a mental catalogue of reasons for him to show up. "Is Molly acting up again? Look man, I might be a wizard, but there's no magical remedy for teenage angst. I wish there was. I really do."

He shook his head gravely. "If only. I've had a bad feeling lately."

I digested this for a moment. "Did the man upstairs tip you off?"

Michael nodded. "Sanya is here."

"Let me guess. Plane stopped over and he decided to come by."

"And the plane is experiencing unsuspected technical difficulties at the moment."

I sighed. "Figures. What brings you here, though?"

Michael was a big man. Thick muscles could be easily discerned even under the tan jacket and flannel he wore. He was just a little shorter than me, but possessed a lot more physicality than I ever did or ever will. Tension gripped his frame though, and he looked to and fro nervously. "It's best if we talk in private."

I yawned. "Sure thing. Let me get ready."

He nodded. "I'll wait outside."

I thanked him and shut the door. I turned to see Mouse staring at me questioningly.

"Got to go, pal. Watch out for Mister for me, will you?"

He barked, probably waking up the entire apartment complex in the process. Mouse (I named him when he was a puppy. Don't judge) was a huge dog, his head easily reaching my waist. And I'm a little less than 6'9. The breed one could easily compare him to is a Caucasian Overcharka Mountain Dog, but he was big even for that particular dog. He was shaggy-furred and sweet, and had saved my ass multiple times. I suspected he was from a lineage of temple guardians, Foo dogs from the Nevernever bred to ward off supernatural attackers. When he went Rottweiler, there was nary a beast that could stand in his way.

This often made me wonder why he let Mister boss him around.

I filled up Mouse and Mister's food and water bowls and put on my leather duster. The weight settled around me comfortably, and I immediately felt better. The night had been long and nightmare-ridden, even with the hot shower. Mental images of mutilated bodies kept on flashing in and out of my mind's eye, and they wouldn't stop.

Shoving those thoughts away, I gathered my things and opened the door.

I followed Michael to his truck, and we pulled out of the curb just as my landlady stuck her head out of her apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief. Glad I missed that potential tongue-lashing.

"So," I said, strapping on my seatbelt. "How are the little Jawas?"

"Well. They've grown since you saw them last."

"I'll be happy to see them."

He smiled wanly. "We're not going home."

I frowned. "Where to, then?"

"Someplace more secure."

There was only one place I had in mind.

Saint Mary of the Angels was a cultural landmark in the heart of Chicago. Founded 1899, I always felt the ancient, consecrated aura emanating from its structure whenever I was near it. It was large and imposing, but not in the least unwelcoming. It's right on Hermitage Ave, you can't miss it. The church had an air of spiritual majesty that rose much higher than its square brick towers, something welcome in a city of so much contradiction. Not to mention the very ground was protected from supernatural evils of every kind. The place was the Helms Deep of safe havens (sans the whole exploding Uruk-Hai thing), and you could count on it being available when you're in a pickle.

And the Padre made great sandwiches.

We parked outside, where a familiar face approached us.

"Harry!" Sanya boomed. "Is nice to see you again!"

His thick Russian accent gave me a little smile. "Sanya. Heard you were in town."

He chuckled, his whole frame shaking with the movement. He was a big man, nearly as tall as me but outweighing me by a million pounds. The white button down shirt he wore complimented his dark skin, and I stopped at the sight. He was actually wearing something without a dangerous combat application. Sanya caught my gaze and smiled. His teeth were a dazzling white.

"Nice, eh?" he said. The Russian picked at his slacks roughly. "It is not very comfortable, but it is Mass, and the Father insisted."

I arched an eyebrow. "Didn't know the Big Guy had fashion preferences."

"Not necessarily," another familiar voice added. "But the way we dress tells a lot about us. Especially in terms of respect and honor. And I can insist pretty well."

Father Forthill extended a hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm but amiable, like always. He was of a slight build and medium height, like most priests one meets. Kind blue eyes stared owlishly at me from behind clean spectacles. I respected the hell out of the guy, and his willingness to harbor me had saved my ass in a couple of occasions. "It's good to see you, Harry."

"Likewise, Father."

"Come. The service is just about over."

I winced. "We can wait outside, if you'd like."

The priest laughed as if what I said was the silliest thing in the world. "Nonsense, Harry! All are welcome to His house. Come."

I scratched the back of my head and followed the man inside.

The Almighty and I aren't exactly on the best of terms. Oh, I believe in him alright, I just don't _believe_ in him. It's not anything that He's done (which wasn't much), but considering my kind were on his Hit List a few millennia ago didn't make it any better. That aside, I tread those waters cautiously. For me, faith is bigger than religion. Faith is applied will and belief; it didn't have to be God, gods, or whatever one believed in. The power one draws from it comes from the inside, the latent and extremely potent energy that is fueled by our will. Its effective and powerful magic, and handy in a tight spot.

But as we entered the spacious cathedral, I felt like an intruder. The majesty of the place evoked something deep inside that I was scared to touch. The people were standing up from the pews, the service already over. I closed my eyes and felt the thrum of steady and nearly inconspicuous energy generated by the prayers and worship of the church members. It was no small wonder why this place was a bastion against evil.

"Ah," Forthill sighed. "Shame. I was hoping to have you attend the service."

"Not the most subtle attempt," I replied. "But there've been worse."

"I'm sure." He smiled at me. "Still, it's good to see you."

Michael put a hand on my shoulder. "Is the place secure?"

Forthill blinked. "Of course. When has it not been?"

The family man nodded. "I just wanted to be completely sure."

Coming from a man who based his entire life on pure faith, that was a little unnerving. I traded a look with Sanya, who, judging by his expression, was thinking the same thing. He was the bravest man I've ever known, so whatever scares Michael pretty much scares the shit out of me. I threw out the obvious guess.

"The Denarians," I said. "They're back, aren't they?"

Michael shook his head. "No. By God, no. I would've sensed their presence."

"Or Harry would be half-conscious and bleeding." Sanya pointed out.

Which was more or less true. The last time those demonic psychos were in town I got roughed up pretty badly, and one of Michael's guys didn't make it. The memories of that particular episode lingered in my nightmares, and the thing I acquired as a consequence haunted me to this day. A whisper caressed my ear, but I brushed it aside.

_Not here. Not yet._

"So," I said, coughing. "What is it then?"

Michael frowned, his brow creased and troubled. "I…I don't know. All I do know is that something very bad is here. Something evil." He glanced at Sanya, and the Russian nodded in agreement.

Forthill clasped his hands together below his belly, staring at Michael curiously. "Has He divulged any information to you lately?"

Michael sighed. "Other than Sanya's timely arrival, He has not spoken to me yet. I was wondering if you knew anything."

The priest tilted his head. "Unfortunately, I do not." He turned to me questioningly. "Although I did read about a rather gruesome murder in the paper. Did Lieutenant Murphy call you up to investigate last night?"

I nodded, a bit surprised at his knowledge. "Yeah, actually. Poor girl was ripped to pieces. Her name was Meredith Rodgers."

Forthill's blue eyes widened in recognition. "Merciful Father," he breathed.

Uh-huh. "Let me guess. She was a member of the church."

The priest closed his eyes in grief and nodded. "She was in and out, but I made sure to familiarize myself with her now and again. She was a lost soul."

Michael came beside the man and clasped his shoulder. "I am sorry. She's in a better place."

Sanya cleared his throat, beating me to the chase. The Russian was a self-proclaimed agnostic, which was shocking considering he'd been recruited by a freaking archangel and chosen to wield a holy sword with a nail from the _Crucifixion_ worked into its pommel."She was ripped to pieces, you said?"

"It was ugly." I hesitated at first, but decided that not telling them was just burning bridges. "As far as I know, it was a demon."

That brought Michael and Forthill from their mourning, and Sanya tilted his head. "Demon? You are sure?"

"Not the one you guys are used too. It's a daeva, an ancient Zoroastrian demon-god that kills its prey by moving through the shadows. It's how the bastard got into the girl's apartment in the first place."

Michael and Father Forthill simultaneously winced at the language.

"Oh. Church. Smite. Gotcha."

Michael smiled for a split second, but it was replaced by worry. "How do we go about dealing with the monstrosity?"

Sanya shrugged. "We kill it."

Straight and to the point. That's what I loved about Sanya. I grunted in assent. "Easier said than done. I'm not sure I have enough juice to take this thing down, so maybe you guys can help."

The remaining Knights of the Cross nodded quickly. It was their mission, after all. To hunt down and exterminate evil in the name of God. Sanya reached under the back pew and took out a black duffel bag, which no doubt held _Esperacchius, _the Sword of Faith. Michael followed his peer's motion and bit his lip. I knew no one hated fighting quite like my friend, but it was a necessity he had to live with. "_Amoracchius_ is at home. We'll meet here later in the afternoon?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

We said our farewells and made to leave. Just before we reached the doors, I turned my head back. Sanya was leaning on a pew, already beginning to whet the blade of his sword. Forthill was staring at the gleaming blade, a curious expression on his old face. His eyes spoke of some secret, but I couldn't tell what. I frowned. I had a sneaking suspicion that the priest was hiding something from me, something vital. I pushed that away until I got all of my bases covered.

We exited into the crisp Chicago breeze, a God-send in the middle of June. Michael dropped me off at home, where I unceremoniously fell on my bed. Mister, offended that I hadn't let him slam against my knees, took that as his cue and promptly curled at the front of the bed by my feet. The silence of my flat was a grim comfort.

"You can come out now, Lasciel."

"I was wondering when you'd say that."

I felt a weight settle onto my hips, and very soft hands began to squeeze my shoulders. I groaned. "That feels good."

"Of course, my host. I offer the best."

I turned onto my back.

Lasciel was a vision in white silk. Her strawberry blonde hair fell in luscious curls down her milky-white shoulders, and the dress she wore was loose and transparent in all the right places. She was beauty epitomized, the kind of beauty bards sang about and artists strived to emulate in stone and canvas. Dark eyes smoldered above me, daring and passionate. My breath hitched in my throat.

"You are weary, my host. Let me ease your pain."

She leaned in towards my lips, but by then my brain had successfully retained its capability to think. I caught her movement with my forearm. "Not so fast, honey. I need to ask you a few questions first."

The fallen angel pouted and settled back onto me. On a place below my hips. I resisted the urge to squeak. "You're no fun, Harry. And you try too hard. Work and play can coexist if you so desire."

Her teasing smile was disarming, but underneath that pretty exterior was a millennia-old predator, and I pushed down my lust and regained my sanity. "Two people have died, Lasciel. You know I can't do that. Now get off of me."

Lasciel nodded obediently and rolled off the bed. She walked away, and I continued to watch her walk away until she sat down on a chair. She grinned knowingly, and I felt a blush creep up my neck.

"What is it that you want to know, my host?"

I cleared my throat and sat up on my bed. In a second my duster was off and on the floor. "What do you know about daevas?"

She frowned. "They are ancient. They were worshipped even before Abraham migrated from Ur."

I rolled my eyes. "They're old, I get that. Tell me how to kill them."

She arched a delicate eyebrow. "You are indeed ambitious if you think you can kill a shadow god. They are the ultimate killers, able to move in the Dark Realm and dispatch their targets in the blink of an eye. They would be summoned to kill someone important, like a leader or figurehead. The daevas are brutal and savage; the remains of the victim would be example enough."

"So what you're saying is that this thing's elusive, scary fast and scary strong."

Lasciel nodded.

"What else is new?" I grumbled. I tried to put up a pretense of calm, but the truth was that I was pretty damn scared. I'd faced some pretty nasty baddies in the past, but nothing quite as fast and deadly as this daeva. I had power, but this thing had speed, stealth, and was devoid of mercy. Lasciel seemed to sense my unease, and she smiled.

"Do you see it now? Those more gifted than you have fallen to them in the past, Harry. You have little chance in your current state."

I didn't fall for the bait. "So I take your upgrade and end up becoming just like them? Thanks, but no thanks. I'll take my chances as they are. All I need from you is how to get rid of a daeva."

She lifted her head proudly. "Who says I know how to kill one?"

I smiled. "Don't bullshit me, Lasciel. These things are crazy strong, but not invincible. There's a reason why I haven't heard anything about them until last night."

She regarded me silently for a moment, but then relented. "Daevas are obscure because so few know the proper summoning ritual. And many have fallen under the might of your kind. Although they wield deadly power, their weakness lies in their reverse: light."

I frowned and crossed my arms. "So I can kill them by using a lot of light?"

Lasciel sniffed. "Hardly. You can drive them away, but it will take a lot more than that to kill a daeva. In the moment that they kill, they transition from the Dark Realm into the mortal demesne. That is your only chance to destroy them, preferably with massive amounts of light and energy."

I grinned. "Fire."

"The universal method of destruction, yes. But one has to match their speed in order to do so."

"So I have to be extremely quick and hard-hitting to take it down." I tapped my chin with an index finger. Good. I had a chance, no matter how ridiculously slim it might be. I wasn't a major powerhouse when it came to magic, but I could duke it out with the reasonably powerful and walk away breathing. My strength lay in overt outpours of magic; I wasn't very subtle. And it just so happened that fire was my specialty.

I lay back down on the cushions and shut my eyes. "Thank you, Lasciel."

"If you still desire a massage, I am willing to assist-"

"_Thank you, _Lasciel."

I could almost hear her pout before her presence vanished from my mind. I sighed. Still. She looked awfully good in that white slip of a dress, figment of my imagination or not. And those legs…

I hadn't realized how much sleep I'd missed. There were still things that needed to be done, but _God this bed feels great. _I struggled to keep my eyelids open, but they felt like lead. Mister purred softly against my legs. Everything felt warm and safe, and I relented to the pull of slumber.

Blackness overtook me.

**XXXXXX**

John Winchester was having a bad day.

Not that that was new or anything. Bad days were a godsend compared to almost-mauled-to-death days or nearly-killed-by-vengeful-spirits days, but it's not like he particularly enjoyed them. The hunter tolerated them at best, and was grateful that no matter how bad those bad days could get, he was still alive when the sun set.

But today was different. It wasn't just any bad day. Today was a day that although he might be breathing at the end of the day, two of his loved ones might not. John slowly put the phone back into the receiver, trying hard to control his breathing. His sons. His everythings. He had tried to convince them to stay out of it, but they wouldn't listen, naturally. Especially when Sammy was involved. Sammy, the rebel. Sammy, the smart one. Sammy, the _college student. _Any normal dad would've been thrilled to have his son nab a full ride to freaking Stanford, but all John Winchester remembered feeling was rage, betrayal, and a crapload of fear. All he could picture was Sammy unknowingly answering the dormitory door and letting some supernatural nasty walk in. Images of police tape and Sammy's dismembered corpse haunted his dreams ever since. Needless to say, it hadn't ended well that night, and Sammy ended up leaving while John was left with oh-so-loyal Dean to hunt.

Now, it wasn't just Sam who was in mortal danger, but his older brother as well. And losing both of them…He shuddered to think about it.

John left the phone booth and walked across the road, hands in his coat pocket and head hunched. There were eyes and ears everywhere, and nowhere was safe as far as the hunter was concerned. The Demon he hunted was no slouch, and John was certain it had sensed someone on its trail at some point. What John wasn't sure of was if the damn thing knew who he was, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

John got into his truck and gunned it down Michigan Avenue. He didn't know much, but two things he was completely certain of: His sons, Dean and Samuel Winchester, were somewhere in Chicago and John had to find them before it was too late.

This brought him to the second point: Something evil was in the city; something demonic. It wasn't the Demon he was looking for considering the normal signs hadn't shown up, but his contacts had been sure that there was something fishy going on. He took a right on Madison, spying the newspaper clipping on the dashboard. The murder of a young Meredith Rodgers had been utterly appalling, its gruesomeness baffling authorities. John snorted. Not much of a surprise there.

His cellphone rang, and he picked it up, eyes glued on the road.

"Winchester," he said.

"John," replied the voice. "It's Forthill."

John smiled. "Father," he said, stopping at a red light. "It's great to hear from you. What have you got?"

"Information for you. Meet me at this address."

The priest gave him the address, and John frowned. "Sounds obscure," he voiced, going past the light.

"That's because it is," Forthill chuckled. "I'll see you there."

He hung up. John sighed and made a U-Turn, realigning himself to his new path. _Priests, _he grumbled in his mind. He didn't know Forthill that well; he'd helped on a job a few years back. He was trustworthy enough, considering most priests John had encountered were either duping him into conversion or possessed by a demon with a devious sense of humor. He wasn't comfortable with using human contacts ever since Mary's murder, but he was going in blind with this one, and he needed intel.

John arrived at his destination and immediately frowned at it. It was a bar, by the looks of it. _Why the hell would a priest meet me at a bar? _Pushing away that obvious contradiction, John got out of his truck and looked around. What little cars in the parking lot were all empty, and he was devoid of the feeling that he was being watched. It looked secure enough. John stuck his hands in his pocket and entered the bar.

While it looked relatively generic from the outside, the inside was a whole lot different. John instinctively observed the bar. There were thirteen long tables in the room, and thirteen pillars erecting the structure. The bar itself was slightly crooked, with thirteen stools beside it and thirteen ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead. John's frown deepened, and he leaned a hand against a pillar as he cautiously walked in.

He felt bumps, and he looked at it. Pictures had been carved into the wood, tableaus of Old World fairy tales, from what John could see. The hunter carefully drew his hand back. Judging by the setup, the whole damn building was designed to counter and refract magical energies, mostly negative ones. It nulled its effects, acting like a giant blanket of lead.

John scanned the tables and found a familiar head of thinning hair. He passed three hunched-over men seated in the same table and sat across from the man.

"Father Forthill," he said. "You look…unpriestly."

The priest laughed. It was a genuine one, and John's liking for the man increased a notch. The word (if it was a word) was true, though. The man was wearing worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and hiking boots, hardly the clerical choice. "Well, when I'm not working I get to wear things other than my traditional attire." His eyes, bright as a robin's egg, twinkled. "It is good to see you, John."

John grunted. "What have you got for me?"

The priest nodded and slowly sipped a glass of water. "Would you like something to drink first?"

John sighed in irritation. Forthill was stalling. "Sure," he said, shrugging. "Beer would be good."

A split second later a brown bottle slid across the table. John looked up to see a tall, gangly man with a shaved head staring at him blankly, wiping his hands with a rag silently. John returned his gaze and sipped at the beer. The delicious froth ran down his throat, and he couldn't resist closing his eyes. "This is damn good," he voiced, surprised. "One of the best I've ever had."

The tall man grunted in appreciation and left. John wondered if that was all he'd stayed for. Forthill chuckled. "I've remained sober for thirty-four-years, John, and this place remains a great temptation whenever I walk in. I hear it's the best in the city."

John couldn't disagree as he took another dreg. "Yeah, it's good. That aside, what did you call me for?"

Forthill looked down at the table, suddenly interested in a whorl on the wooden surface. "McAnally's Pub is a safe haven for practitioners, creatures, or those knowledgeable of the supernatural community. It is neutral territory under the Unseelie Accords, although it is a mystery as to how Mac managed that." John glanced at the nondescript bartender, who was busy making ale for his customers. Forthill met his gaze. "I believe I talked to you about this the last time we met."

John nodded. "Wouldn't have believed you if it weren't for Milwaukee."

Forthill shook his head. "The Unseelie Incursion of 1994. The entire city vanished from the map; even GPS couldn't get a lock on it. Fortunately, it reappeared, its citizens none the wiser."

When Father Forthill had told John of this new world that existed very closely to his own, he'd hardly believed it. It was several years ago, and John had gotten rid of a poltergeist haunting a middle-class family's home. The family was a member of Father Forthill's congregation, and the expulsion rite wouldn't have been as effective if it weren't for a friendly tip from the priest. Dean was in the Impala waiting while John had conversed with the Forthill. Forthill had told him about Faerie Courts, Vampire Courts, the White Councils, and so much more that John had trouble remembering if it was all a dream. He felt partly confused and partly furious. Hunters were supposed to be knowledgeable about the supernatural. This made him look like a fucking idiot. The vampire part especially irritated him. Now there were three more kinds of vamps that were stronger, faster, and a lot harder to kill? Gordon would've been furious. That aside, he shoved that information away, knowing it wouldn't affect him much. If it didn't alter his hunting life then, it wouldn't now.

Forthill snapped his fingers, and John switched back to reality.

"I've been told there is a demon in town." Forthill leaned forward, eyes serious. "And if I recall correctly, you are of a certain occupation that specializes in exterminating these beasts."

John gazed at the priest, not blinking. "You can't kill a demon. You should know that. You can only exorcise 'em and send 'em back to Hell."

Forthill waved a hand. "I understand that, but you know that there's something else in the city. A dark being, easily mistaken to be demonic."

John sighed. "A daeva. It's been killing civilians." He looked at Father Forthill. "How did you know that?" The priest was not an ignorant man, but there were some things so shrouded in the fog of history that ordinary clergymen could not have known about. The priest only smiled.

"You have your contacts, I have mine."

John arched an eyebrow. "Being secretive, I see."

The priest sniffed. "I wasn't going to withhold them from you, John." He reached beside him and slammed a genuine yellow phonebook onto the table. "Look for Harry Dresden, under 'Wizards'. He's the supernatural law enforcement of the city, and a Warden of the White Council. He's saved the lives of countless citizens in the past, and his assistance will be a boon in your investigation-"

"Hold on," John was frowning at the large book. "He's under 'Wizards'?"

Forthill smiled. "I believe I said that."

"You mean to tell me this guy is advertising himself in the pages as an honest-to-God wizard?"

Forthill's smile widened. "He isn't the most subtle of characters."

John rubbed his face. "You've got to be kidding me."

Forthill chuckled. "I'm not." The man rose, presumably to leave. "I'll have to be heading home now. I promised my nephew I'd show him how to make a proper turkey sandwich, and I wouldn't want to disappoint."

John rose with him, extending a hand. The priest firmly shook it. "Thank you for the help, Father. I'll be sure to give this guy a call."

They made for the exit, where Forthill suddenly stopped by the stairs that led up from the main room. "Oh, and John," he gave the hunter a stern look. "I know about your quest to take down this demon."

John froze. "Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What about it?"

"I'd advise you to stay out of it, but I'm sure you'd refuse."

"Naturally."

Father Forthill sighed. "I expected as much. Just be careful, and remember you have two sons that love you."

John locked his gaze on the priest's kindly blue eyes, eyes the hunter suddenly couldn't stand. "Why the hell do you think I'm doing this?"

The priest stared at him for a moment longer. "Goodbye and Godspeed, John Winchester."

The man walked up the stairs and out the door. John stared at his retreating form until it disappeared into the Chicago summer. He exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath during the brief exchange. John strolled up to the bar and slumped down on a stool. "Your best, please."

Mac the bartender merely slid a flagon of ale towards the hunter, who graciously tilted it towards the man and drank it down. It tasted like pure heaven. _I'll have to come to Chicago more often, _John thought as he ordered another.

_That is if my boys and I survive._

John shied away from that horrifying thought and lost himself in the drink, suddenly realizing that the day was still a pretty bad day, and that from then on it was just going to get a whole lot worse.

* * *

**AN: There are many confusing parts, but hopefully they'll be cleared out in due time. I can't seem to get Dresden's first-person, so if you have any comments regarding that please inform me! I need as much help I can get. Drop a review on your way out, if you don't mind. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Sorry for the wait. Here's the next chapter.**

* * *

"Who'd you guys say you were again?"

The man in the crisp black and white suit flashed a quick smile. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. DC."

The cop was a burly, dark-skinned character, the years of long stakeouts and countless arrests evident on his scowling features. His frown drew both of his eyebrows together in one gray, furry mass below his forehead, and his gaze was as piercing as a silver stake. "Aren't you guys a bit young to be feds?"

The smile dazzled the room again. "It's the face cream, I use it every day." He laughed, but it soon fizzled out when the cop continued to stare at him blankly. "Okay, okay, I admit it. We're newbies."

The cop raised his chin, peering down at them from the tip of his nose. "Show me your badges."

The two men nonchalantly drew their badges out from their suit pockets and showed them to the officer. The man grunted. "You check out. Fine, she's in her office. I warn you though: the lieutenant isn't in the best of moods." The man nodded at the pair and disappeared into the throng of cops situated around the room.

Sam Winchester finally let out the breath he'd been holding. "Jesus, Dean. A fed? Really?"

"Hey, it works. The moment these doughnut-munching robots see a guy in a black suit they go scrambling like cockroaches from a light."

Sam glanced discreetly at the black cop from before, who was trying and failing to not make it seem like he was watching them. "What about that guy over there? He was on to us, I just know it."

Dean scoffed. "And I dealt with him. No worries, Sammy, we got this. Let's just talk to this Lieutenant Murphy chick and get on with hunting whatever killed Meredith and Ben."

Sam lifted both his hands. "Fine. Fine, let's do it."

Dean adjusted his tie and knocked on the door to the lieutenant's office.

"Come in," a woman said with a very unwomanly grunt.

Dean looked at Sam with wide eyes, and it took him everything not to shove his older brother into the room by the collar. Dean opened the door. "Lieutenant Karrin Murphy, Special Investigations?"

Karrin Murphy offered them a tight smile from behind her desk. She was a youngish blonde, a bit too cute to be associated with the police force. From Sam's vantage point (which was pretty high up), he could tell she was quite petite, maybe just shy of five foot. Her button nose almost crinkled in distaste, but she hid it well. "Good afternoon. I'd ask what the feds are doing sticking their noses in police business, but I doubt I'd get a straight answer."

_At least she's honest. _Sam chuckled. "Funny. We'd just like to ask a few questions regarding the murders of Meredith Rodgers and Ben Swordstrom."

"That is if you're willing to cooperate," Dean ventured. "Mrs. Murphy."

The cop tilted her head, seeing the challenge in the hunter's eyes. "Lieutenant."

Dean waved a hand. "Of course, of course. Now, could you run us through what you saw the previous night?"

The lieutenant stared at them for an agonizing moment. She had frosty blue eyes, the bright kind that made you really want to break eye contact but entice you to stare all the while. Sam had to struggle to not look away. He found it quite comical that he was losing a staring contest against a cute, miniscule blonde. The woman finally nodded; satisfied with whatever psychic test she had imposed. "Sit, please."

Dean shared a brief look with his younger brother before sitting down in front of the lieutenant's small desk. She wasn't the usual type of city cop they dealt with: ignorant, gullible, grouchy, and just itching to get those damn feds out of their hair. The brothers had to be a lot more careful around her.

"Where were we?" she asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "The murders."

"Oh, yes. The murders. Well, they were all pretty much the same: torn to pieces, no signs of a struggle or forced entry. Pretty damn unbelievable."

_For you, cutiepie._ Dean nodded, as if genuinely engrossed. "Nothing unusual?"

Murphy snorted. "Other than the part where the victims were slaughtered inside a locked house with no potential suspects lurking about? No, not really."

There was something she wasn't telling them. Both of the brothers had ample experience with agitated witnesses who were too scared to tell the truth, or at least the truth of what they thought they saw. It was in the eyes, a guarded look that appeared whenever they were backed into a corner, or asked a question they didn't like. But it was different with her; she was hiding something, yes, but there was no panic. Only a firm will not to divulge whatever secret she possessed.

Dean leaned forward. "Are you sure there was nothing? Nothing at all? No strange occurrences, something that spooked you?"

The woman turned very still. She leaned forward, her face close enough to Dean's that he could smell the coffee on her breath. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean did anything seem almost…supernatural, in a sense?"

Lieutenant Murphy's face closed over. "It was an ordinary homicide, agent, if that's what you're asking. Nothing out of whack, just some guy with a few nuts and bolts unscrewed on a killing spree. I assure you, the Chicago Police Department will have this over in no time. Sir."

Sam nodded, trying to be as cooperative as possible. It was only a matter of time before Dean screwed something up with a wiseass crack he apparently thought friendly and amiable. "Yes, but we were curious as to why these cases were referred to SI. That in itself denotes a rather…" He pretended to struggle for the right word. "Peculiar atmosphere."

Lieutenant Murphy didn't blink. "Yes. And?"

Dean's lips twitched, and he was about to say something cheeky when Sam stood and clasped his brother's shoulder. "Thank you, lieutenant." He smiled at her. The gesture wasn't reciprocated. "That will be all."

Dean stood, not leaving the cop's gaze until he was at the threshold of her office. He turned and closed the door behind him. The hunter took a deep breath. "Wow."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"I don't know what to do. Put her on the Bitch List for all eternity or ask her out for lunch."

Sam was baffled. "You're an idiot, Dean."

Dean smiled. "What? I bet she's a total wildcat in the sack."

They were about to leave when the office door behind them opened, and the lieutenant stood framed against the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hey, you. FBI. What were your names again?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean beat him to the chase. "We never said, lieutenant."

Murphy glared at him. "Well I'm asking now."

"Agents Tyler and Kramer. If you want to see our badges, talk to your buddy over there by the coffee machine. We showed him our badges."

Murphy arched an eyebrow. "Rawlins?"

The black cop plodded over to them, scowling at the brothers. "Yeah, Murphy?"

"They check out?"

"Yeah. But I won't let that stop you from throwing their asses out of here."

Dean frowned and opened his mouth, but Sam cut in. "We understand. Thank you, and have a great afternoon."

Sam almost had to drag his brother out of the building before the spiteful glances being thrown at them turned into something physical. Once they were outside, Dean pushed Sam away from him and straightened his tie. "The nerve of some people. And to think Uncle Sam was doing them a favor."

"You still want to ask that girl out?"

Dean shrugged. "Depends. If I can survive a potential mauling, I think I might have a chance. Anyways, there's one thing I'm sure of. It's freaking hot as hell out here, and I want to get out of this ridiculous suit ASAP."

Sam couldn't agree more. Chicago summers were blistering hot, almost as unbearable as her winters. They walked down the crowded sidewalk towards the Impala. Dean did his little exterior inspection, and once they made sure no rambunctious hooligans messed with his pride and joy, they were off.

"She was lying, you know," Sam said at a stoplight. "I could totally see it."

"You think?" replied Dean as he stripped out of his jacket. "She went from Cop Bitch to Psycho Cop Bitch from Hell the moment we asked about anything supernatural."

"What do you think she's hiding?" Sam frowned. "And don't you think it's a little weird that Chicago has a Special Investigations Division? I mean, I did a little research, and these guys have dealt with ghost sightings to even a rumored werewolf attack."

Dean unbuttoned his collar and threw his tie in the backseat. "All the more reason to suspect the lieutenant. I'm telling you man, I hate Chicago." Dean glanced irritably at his brother. "And why the hell are you driving my baby?"

Sam smirked. "You never said for me not to."

"Aw hell, stop the car."

"No, Dean. I'm driving the Impala this time, I don't care what you say-"

"Sam! Look to your right, in the alley by the stop sign."

Sam obliged, and his heart jumped. It would've been easily missed if they hadn't focused on it, which was probably the intent. In the distance, in the middle of a shadow-bathed alley, a man was whaling on someone curled up on the floor, defenseless.

"Pull over, Sammy!"

"_What?_"

"Just do it!"

Sam cursed and drove out of the traffic amidst a cacophony of honks. They pulled over to a curb by the sidewalk and hurriedly got out. Dean was still in his white shirt and slacks, the top collar unbuttoned.

"I thought we solved supernatural problems, Dean," Sam hissed, struggling to keep up. "Not ordinary muggings!"

Dean led the way, shoving pedestrians out of the way as they approached the alley. "True," he grunted. "But I'm bored, and what's better than to save an innocent man from an honest-to-God mugging? It's like in the buddy-cop movies, you know Sammy? Two ruggedly handsome, no-nonsense enforcers of the law come swooping in to save the day-"

"Fine," Sammy cut in. "You want to save the day, go ahead and save it." He took Dean by the shoulders and swung him around the corner of the alley he was about to speed-walk by. Dean yelped and nearly tripped over a fallen trash bin. The clanging sound alerted the mugger to their presence. The man stopped kicking his victim and stared at Sam and Dean for a few seconds.

Then, he bolted the other way.

"Sam, see if this guy's okay!" Dean yelled.

Sam threw up his arms. "And what, you're going to save the day?"

Dean began to run, but he took the time to flash a grin at his younger brother. "Naturally!"

Sam watched his elder take off down the network of alleys in amused bewilderment. "Jeez," he sighed. Sam leaned down and gripped the downed, silent man by the shoulders. "Alrighty, let's get you up-"

The man moved in a flash, jabbing his elbow into Sam's face. Sam cried out and heard more than felt his nose crunch, and the impact caused stars to flash in his vision. He hit the ground hard, nursing his face. Through his pain, he could hear the man's flagging breath and hurried pace. And just like that, he was gone.

_Right,_ Sam thought, resting his back against the grimy wall of the alley. _Save the freaking day._

The mugger wasn't the most adept at the art of strategic cowardice, and soon Dean was close enough to see the elaborate logo of the man's oversized coat. Years of constant hunts with Dad and vengeful victims of one night stands forged Dean into a competent running machine. He had little trouble catching up to the man, grabbing his shoulders, and tackling him to the ground.

They landed with a thud and an exhale of precious air. The mugger let out a string of curses and tried to extricate himself from Dean's grip, but the hunter wouldn't let go. "Not so fast, tough guy," Dean gasped. "Doesn't feel to good being on the losing end of the fight, does it?"

"Fuck you, guy!"

"Real articulate. You a professor when you're not mugging folks?"

The man snarled and rolled out from Dean's hold. Dean grimaced and snatched the man's ankle, tripping him. The mugger cursed again and kicked at Dean, but his reflexes took over, and the kick went wide from his face. "Not the moneymaker," he gritted as the boot went sailing by.

Dean was on his feet in an instant. The next thing the mugger knew Dean's fist was coming fast, and he was on the ground with a throbbing jaw. Dean took a deep breath over his opponent, rubbing his right fist.

"You had enough?" he said.

The mugger looked up at him with black eyes full of undisguised hatred. "You'll pay for this, you bastard. You'll die a slow death."

Dean waved his hand. "Nah. Better idea: how 'bout you give me the money you took from that dude back there and we call it a day. Hey, I'll even let you tell your buddies I was seven feet tall with horns and an Uzi."

The man started to laugh. "You fuckin' idiot. I wasn't muggin' Jimmy. I was punishing that fucker for what he did to us."

Dean frowned. He had an Eastern accent, like the guys from those old gangster movies they'd show on television a few times. "What the hell are you talking about?" he grunted.

"You just fucked up official business, sucker," the guy chuckled darkly. "You're in for it now. You mark my fuckin' words, you are _in_ for it!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?" He was a bit disappointed it wasn't a mugging. Muggings were simple, easily solved. Now it looks like he stepped into some knockoff Al Capone shit.

"I'm Tommy Bello," the young man spat. "You remember my name. You remember it when you're chained up and about to be thrown into Lake Michigan."

Dean smirked. "Well, _bitch_, if we're trading names here, I'm Dean Winchester. You remember that when you go home and nurse your balls."

Tommy's frown was the picture of confusion. "The hell are you talkin'-"

Dean kicked the wannabe gangster between the legs. Johnny howled, clutching his privates. Dean closed his eyes and smiled. _Music to my ears._

Dean walked off, whistling a tune he'd heard on the radio the other day. Soon, Tommy's cries for vengeance and an ice pack faded away. But Dean's happiness quickly faded when he spied Sam hunched over by the wall.

"Sammy!" he cried, running over to him. "You alright, buddy? What happened?"

Sam pushed his brother off of him. "Son of a bitch nailed me when I tried to help him up," he groaned. "So much for saving the day."

Dean frowned, tilting his head. "Is it broken?"

"I don't know, I didn't bother seeing if it-"

Dean reached over and tweaked Sam's nose. Sam's face went white as a sheet. "I. Will. Kill. You." he hissed. "Again. And again. And again."

Dean chuckled and ruffled his brother's hair. "Good luck with that. You'll probably have to pull me out of Hell itself if that's the case."

"Whatever it takes, Dean. Trust me." Sam glared at him. "Did you even get the money back?"

Dean shook his head, helping Sam to his feet. "No. Turns out he wasn't even mugging the guy. His name was Tommy Baloney or whatever, and he said something about punishing him, and official business of some kind. For all I know, the guy could've been a freaking politician."

Sam scoffed. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I kid you not, brother. Those were the exact words." He caught Sam's death glare. "Hey, cheer up. It's only a maybe-broken nose. It'll heal. Tell you what, why don't we get some beer, and I'll hook you up with some hot chick that totally digs the whole fresh-out-of-the-fight, enlarged nose look—ouch! What the hell was that for?"

"My nose isn't that big," Sam grumbled.

"You sure about that? Take a look in the mirror when we get back to the Impala. It's a real beauty, Sam, believe you me."

Sam tuned out his brother's infuriatingly optimistic chatter and tried to handle the incessant pain smack dab in the middle of his face. He sincerely hoped they'd find the killer of Meredith and Ben fast, because the sooner they got out of this godforsaken city, the better.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"You said they were FBI?"

"_That's what they said, but even an idiot could tell they were lying through their teeth._"

I yawned, stretching my arms towards the ceiling. I felt my bones crack, and a dizzy euphoria washed over me. I hadn't realized how much I needed that nap. "Okay. So two fake FBI agents come to you asking about the murders. What do I have to do with this?"

Murphy sighed on the other end. I could picture her rolling her eyes in exasperation in that mess of a police department. "_They were questioning me about supernatural occurrences, Harry. Don't you think that's a little weird? And why would they feel the need to play dress up?_"

I shrugged and rolled out of bed. "I don't know, Murphy. Maybe they've got identity issues. It isn't your problem."

"_Like hell it isn't. The next time I see those sons of bitches I'm arresting them for impersonating an officer of the law. You're going to help me, Dresden._"

Hell hath no fury, alright. When Murphy was pissed, there was little on God's green earth that could get in her way and survive. She might look all cute, girl-next-door, but when something got on her nerves, she was a sight to behold. Preferably wearing protective body armor. Several miles away. "Fine, I'll help. But I'm a little busy trying to find a shadow god, if you don't mind."

_"You never did tell me about that._"

I scowled and put on my leather duster. "Sue me. I was bushed. Anyways, it's not your business anymore."

There was a frosty silence. I could hear the faint chatter of conversation in the division office. "_Excuse me?_"

I cringed, but then realized I was in the safety of my apartment with a Temple dog to keep me company. Although I had doubts Mouse would be able to shield me from Murphy's wrath when he couldn't even stand up to a cat, no matter how abnormally large that cat is. "Look, Murph, I'm sorry. This thing is pretty much what I told you last night: strong, fast, old, and powerful. Very powerful. There's little you can do, and it's too-"

"_Dangerous? Are you seriously saying that it's too dangerous for me to get involved? We've danced this dance before, Dresden, and I've always come out on top. This is my city too, and I'm not going to sit in my office twiddling my thumbs while this thing is on the loose._"

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Murph, I'm not kidding here-"

"_I'm not either. Goodbye, you chauvinist pig._"

She hung up. I threw the phone down onto the bed. Always with the swine-related insults, that woman. The cellphone Thomas had lent me had actually worked for a whole conversation, and that conversation turned out to be completely pointless. Goddammit, Murphy. Every time I attempted to save her neck she rebuffed me. It was in her nature, but living with the fact that one day I could actually be certain she was going to survive another day helped me sleep at night. It wasn't just Murphy; it was everyone I cared about. There were moments when I was sure I was headed to imminent doom, and suddenly people wanted in on the party. I had nightmares about my loved ones in body bags because they'd joined me on a job and I'd been too slow to save them.

Mouse came up to me, his tail wagging. His big brown eyes held a kernel of understanding. I rubbed his shaggy head. "Why is it that everyone's so willing to put their asses on the line?" I said. "That's my job."

I got my things and headed out of the apartment. It was a baking oven outside, but that wasn't that surprising. I considered taking my duster off for the benefit of not getting cooked alive, but I went against my better nature and kept it on. To hell with comfort and looks that questioned my mental state. Any second a baddie could come running up and this bad boy would be the only thing between me and the Grim Reaper. Or whatever afterlife delivery person that carried off religiously-indecisive, potty-mouthed wizards. That aside, it's saved me more than once, and I felt a little naked without it.

I got into the Beetle, and I panicked for a split second when it shook violently under my weight. The old thing wasn't a Lamborghini by any means, but I was scared it was going to collapse one day on the middle of the highway. And trust me; no magic could protect you from a several-ton mass of metal and road rage bearing down upon you fifty miles per hour. At least any magic I currently possessed. I gritted my teeth and started the engine. I was on the road a second later.

I was about to turn onto the street that led to my office when some jerk in a black car cut me off. My heart skipped a beat and I honked my horn. It sounded like a clown's nose, but I figured if I slammed it enough times they'd understand the Beetle's fury. "Hey, asshat! Learn to drive!"

"Nice car, loser!" the driver yelled back at me as he screeched away. I frowned and resumed driving, my heart rate slowing down. "He wasn't being serious, honey," I crooned to the Beetle. "You're beautiful."

It took me a second to realize that I was talking to my car. "I'm going crazy," I sighed. "That's the only feasible explanation. I've got a fallen angel in my head, a global vampire war to fight, and a Zoroastrian shadow demon to kill. I'm clinically insane."

The only people who talked to their cars had a legitimate relationship with them, I figured. Real muscleheads, who named them, sang songs to them, got overly excited when it was time for a car wash or new paint job. I bet that jerk from before was one of that brood; the car was an Impala, if I identified it correctly. A classic, and I wondered how devastated the owner of that particular car would feel if he found it lying in some deep pit a few miles out of town.

Nice thoughts, Harry. Nice thoughts. The intense heat of the Illinois summer was getting to me, and I muttered words of relief when I pulled up to my office building. I was about to enter and savor the miracle of air-conditioning when a man by the door stopped me.

"Harry Dresden?" he said. "Professional wizard?"

I blew through my nose and put my hand in the air. "Not in the mood, pal. And no, I don't own a wand. I also have never attended a magical school in Scotland, and nor do I have an owl. Thank you."

I stepped forward, but he blocked me. The man spread both of his arms. "I was told that you can help me with something."

I reined my anger in and assented. "Fine. But can we carry this conversation inside?"

He nodded, and we walked in. I immediately stamped my foot on the floor, drawing looks. "What is it?" the man asked.

"Of all the days," I huffed, exasperated. "Out of all the days of the year, today's the day the air conditioner's broken!"

My office was a quaint little thing, all even corners and filled with the smell of old coffee. I led the man into the room and got the chance to give him a closer inspection. He was middle-aged, with a wide jawline and dark features. His black hair was trimmed fairly close to his scalp, and the clothes he wore told me he was of the same breed as Michael: simple, hard-working, and reliable. The man had a frame that said he was fit, probably ex-military. He looked like an old soldier, which I could guess at. He'd just recently shaved, and his stubble stretched along his chin.

"So, what can I help you with?" I asked, sitting down and sorting through the mail I'd just retrieved.

The man sat down and took a moment to speak. "My name is John Winchester," he said, his voice gravelly and deep. "Father Forthill said you could help kill a daeva."

I froze in place, a yellow envelope mid-way from being thrown in the trash.

There were only a few plausible reasons why a stranger would one) come to me for help, referred by the Padre himself (which could've been an easily fabricated lie), and two) know about the monster I was hunting, or at least have knowledge about the supernatural for that matter. The reason that was screaming in my head right now was that the man before me was here to kill me, and was using the information to shock me into confusion so that he could take my life.

I spat out an incantation, and the door behind John Winchester shut with a weighty slam. He whirled, and the moment he looked back at me my blasting rod was in his face. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't roast your ass alive."

John peered down at the rod with a frown. I could picture what was going on in his head: why was this man pointing a stick at me and why should I feel frightened? I put some power into the rod, and its business end started sizzling. Smoke curled out from its tip, and I was satisfied to see fear creep into the man's black eyes. "Three seconds."

He spread his arms, surrendering. "Now let's be reasonable here," he began.

"Two."

"Father Forthill said you could help me kill the son of a bitch that's murdering civilians, so I came to see you. You weren't answering your phone, so I asked around. Folks told me that you were a tall guy with a black trench coat, so I waited outside. I mean you no harm."

I processed this for a moment. I lowered the blasting rod a fraction, sniffing. "It's called a duster," I murmured.

Sanity welcomed himself back into my head. The truth was I was sweaty, strung-out, and a little panicky. Hell's bell's, I should've been kissing the guy's feet for virtually offering his assistance with the daeva hunt, but instead I was threatening to burn him alive. I rubbed at my temples. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Please, sit."

John cleared his throat. I opened my eyes and realized that my blasting rod was still pointed at the space between his eyes. Talk about awkward. I put it back into the confines of my duster and coughed into my fist. The man finally sat, albeit slowly and with a lot more caution. I waved my hand. "Again, I'm really sorry. Saying I was going to roast you was my temper talking. The last couple of days haven't exactly been particularly dandy."

John grunted. "I can relate."

Good. Back to business. "Now you said Father Forthill told you about me?"

He nodded. "Pointed you out in the pages. Said you were…good at this sort of thing. Demon-hunting."

I frowned and leaned back. "Not exactly. I mean I've had my fair share of the supernatural, but relatively little has had to do with legit demons." My frowned deepened, and I looked him in the eye. For a brief second only; I didn't want to go through that particular experience just yet. "Forgive me if I prod, but how is it that you know about these things?"

"What things?"

"Daevas. Demons. The supernatural." Vanilla mortals were the large majority of this planet, and they were terribly ignorant to the world they thought they ruled. There were whole societies based upon the supernatural, populations in thrall to some powerful, ugly SOB with a name on the Unseelie Accords. I faced him, looking at but not quite focusing on his eyes. "Ordinary folk aren't supposed to know about this stuff, much less ask for help regarding it."

"I'm a hunter." He stated it as if it was the clearest truth in the world.

I blinked. "A hunter. I can only guess as to what kind of game you hunt."

John smiled, but it contained little mirth. "The only kind worth hunting."

I positioned my fingers into a steeple and regarded my new client carefully. He was a hunter, he'd said. A simple enough word, but one that held many meanings and intents. John Winchester on the outside was nothing out of the ordinary; a middle-aged man with a lot of old pains and memories on his grim countenance. But if my hunch was correct, he wasn't that much different from me: he hunted Things. Dark, scary things that mothers used to scare their children to sleep when the sky was black and the moon high. Things that killed mercilessly, whether from survival instinct or personal enjoyment. Things that were faster, smarter, and a heck of a lot stronger than normal men and women. So if my suspicions were correct, my respect for the man would only increase.

I frowned. "What was your name again?"

"John Winchester."

Winchester. Hm. Why did that name sound a little familiar? I shoved that notion along with the countless other things into my mental review-later bin. There were more important things to worry about.

I wondered how long a mortal man would survive when he took it upon himself to hunt the hunters of the night, monsters from fable and myth. I ran the numbers in my head, and the end results didn't look so hot. "How long have you been a, uh, hunter?" I asked, genuinely curious.

John shrugged. "A while."

That was probably all I was going to get on that subject. When they go for one to two syllable sentences you know they've shut down. I tried another angle. "You do this by yourself?"

He shook his head. "I've got two boys. They helped me out when they were young, after their mother died. I showed them the ropes, taught them how to hunt. My youngest went to college, while my eldest stayed with me."

He had children. And their mother had passed, most likely murdered by some evil baddie all those years ago. Revenge was the likeliest explanation for a regular man to go hunting things like daevas and demons. I felt for him on that level, since I myself was a few family members short. My mother lost her life pushing me out into the world, and my dad died not too long after. I used to think that maybe they'd left me so young because they'd loved each other so much, and that they were happy together. In a better place. But I'd stopped romanticizing death long ago, and whenever my mind strayed to them there was only a throbbing numbness. "I'm sorry about your wife," I said quietly.

He shrugged again, staring at the floor. "What's done is done. Saving people's all that matters to me right now." John suddenly looked up and met my eyes. "Enough about me. Are you really a wizard?"

I averted my gaze quickly. "Full-fledged practitioner of the Art, at your service. I also like saving people, although I probably have to deal with a lot more paperwork than you do." A scary thought drifted into my head. "Say, I wouldn't be on your supernatural hit list would I?"

He didn't skip a beat. "Depends. If you were using black magic to harm people, then I'd put a bullet in your head, no questions asked."

Yikes.

"So you're not afraid to kill humans, too," I ventured.

"I mean no offense when I say this, but I wouldn't label your kind as completely _human_," he said with no trace of regret. "More like a race of beings gifted with an extremely potent and volatile energy."

I couldn't help but feel offended. That's what usually happens when someone starts out a sentence with "no offense". We wizards were different, sure, but we weren't anything but human. Humans with the ability to wield and harness magic, and have incredibly long lives. My mentor, Ebenezer, was over five-hundred years old and still going strong.

My opinion of John started to even out a bit. He was undoubtedly a brave, skilled man, but I sensed he had a shoot first, ask questions later mentality that probably sent some misguided young creatures to the unexpected embrace of death. You had to pick your words and actions carefully when dealing with men like John, so you don't end up riddled with bullet holes six feet under. They'd been through so much that they viewed compassion as a luxury they couldn't afford and ruthlessness an evil they were willing to employ. Many times they'd end up enjoying their job a little too much due to the years of cold repetition.

"Where's your eldest?" My lips had moved without consulting my brain, and the words had just come out. I slammed my mouth shut, but the effect was immediate.

His brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"

Damn it. "Your eldest son," I explained. "You said he helped you hunt."

He regarded me very closely, as if deciding whether or not I was a threat. I recognized the look; I'd seen it on all my closest friends at one point in our relationship. It took a moment for John to spill, and when he did it looked like the words tasted sour in his mouth. "He's in Chicago, trying to hunt the daeva. I tried to stop him, but he's always been a stubborn boy. I want to kill the monster first before my son screws up and gets himself killed."

Bingo. The motive and the goal all wrapped into one convenient little package for me to unravel. He was here because he wanted his son safe and out of harm's way, like any good father. I didn't know about that much growing up, but I'd seen it enough in the Carpenter household to know how special and powerful that bond is. Unless he was lying, I knew that John Winchester wasn't doing anything nefarious in my city.

But I thought about the daeva, and how everyone was telling me how strong and deadly it was. Deadly even for me, a guy who burned down a mansion full of Red Court vampires, faced an overwhelmingly powerful _loup-garou_, and destroyed zombie hordes and laid low rival sorcerers. And if I was going to have serious issues with this thing, I didn't even want to begin imagining what horrors lay in wait for the courageous but ultimately vulnerable hunter sitting in front of me.

And what grief the man's son would go through when he learned his father was dead.

"I don't know much," I lied. The words tumbled out of me again. I didn't want to lie to the man, but I was saving his life. He just didn't know it.

John's head snapped towards me, a scowl beginning to form. He opened his mouth, but I lifted a hand.

"Before you get angry," I began. "Hear me out. I'm just as fresh on the case as you are, so there's little I can say besides that the thing we're hunting is in fact a daeva. An extremely powerful dark entity capable of moving in the shadows to kill its victims."

John let out a frustrated sigh. "How do we kill it?"

We? "I don't know," I lied again. I could picture Lasciel snickering gleefully in my head. The fallen angel was probably having a field day with this. "I really don't. I wish I could help you, man, but there's nothing I know. I'm sorry."

John's face darkened, and he stood. He reluctantly stuck out a hand, and I shook it limply. "I'll be going then," he said, coughing. "Got to start some research."

"It was good meeting you, John," I told him.

He looked at me, straight in the eyes. He'd always been trying to do that since we met outside the office building; I guessed he just wanted to have me stare back. Eye contact was absolutely essential in establishing a relationship. But the problem was that I couldn't do that, not just yet. I didn't want to invade his private space, and I'm not talking in a physical aspect here. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and in my case, there was no truer statement. When I looked away, I could see in my peripheral vision a small expression of disgust flicker on his face.

He turned on his heel and exited. The door slammed with a shut louder in my head than what it actually was. I swallowed down a knot of shame that had crept up my throat.

I was alone.

A couple of things began to run through my head.

One: the daeva. How the hell was I going to find, much less kill it? It moved through the shadows, so it was most likely a nocturnal creature. But that supposition didn't make it any more easier to locate it. I essentially had to find a single odd-looking needle in a gigantic needle stack.

Two: John Winchester. The revelation about vanilla mortals hunting monsters like big game was unnerving to say the least, and the thought of a man like John running around town hunting this daeva just plain scared the crap out of me. Then there was his son, who was probably out there doing the same thing. And why did the name Winchester sound so damn familiar?

Three: Father Forthill. He was hiding something from me this morning, I just knew it. That and the fact that the Winchester guy was referred to me by the Padre himself was a tad bit confusing. How did they know each other? Was John a member of his congregation?

Things were getting complicated, and yours truly had to make sense of it all before the monster struck again. Then we'd have a bona fide supernatural serial killer on the loose in Chicago.

Lucky me.

* * *

**AN: Hope you enjoyed it. Still getting the hang of Dresden POV, but thank you for all the lovely comments. Props to starcelt for pointing out my mistake (*has been edited) in the previous chapter. All mysteries will be dealt with accordingly, so hold fast. Leave a review on your way out, if you'd like. **


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Yay, update!**

* * *

I walked out of the office building with an emerging migraine, no more knowledgeable than I had been after John Winchester stormed out of my room. Several hours of mental exertion and about six cups of bad coffee had led to a steaming pile of nothing.

Where did daevas hide? They wouldn't be nowhere near as powerful during the day, so I guessed they'd be somewhere in Undertown, the vast network of subterranean pathways beneath Chicago that scarcely anyone knew about and where virtually every frog-eyed, ugly son of a gun chose as their living space. But the big problem with Undertown was that it was big. Really big. Layer upon layer of abandoned tunnels and faulty old structures that one could get lost in for days if he didn't know the right places to tread. And there were few right places and plenty of wrong ones. It's Dark in Undertown, full of forgotten malice that sent shudders down my spine knowing I lived just above them. I risked venturing into Undertown only when it was a last resort.

So I couldn't take a peek down under simply because I lacked time and the essential knowledge. If I had a general idea of where the bastard had holed up, I _might've _chanced going down into Undertown, but only with heavy back-up. Preferably two holy sword-wielding Fists of God. But even then it was a crapshoot. The daeva was an ancient Power, completely unpredictable and absolutely evil. And shadows were the only certain thing you can find in Undertown, so fighting the daeva in its home turf was nigh suicidal.

Then there was the Winchester brood. John was a man of action, a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy. He'd have no trouble tearing a path through my city trying to find the daeva, and there were few that could stop him without obliterating his mortal frame. It was a little tough being pissed at the guy but still concerned for his safety. If he or his darling son crossed paths with, say, Lara Raith and her cohorts or even Gentleman Johnny Marcone, the only foreseeable resolution was a Mexican stand-off and, in the regrettable end, a dead Winchester. I could tell the man was good, but no normal dude was that good. Especially when things like the White Court was involved.

A hand slammed down on the Beetle's hood as I fit the key into the lock. I looked up at the culprit. "Hah," I said. "Speak of the tall, muscular, glittery devil."

Thomas frowned and peered at the window of the Beetle. "What glitter?" he murmured.

"'Twas a jest, my good sir," I replied. "What are you doing here?"

Thomas was my older brother. Half-brother, if you want to be technical. He didn't look like it, what with me being much taller than him and his whole eternally-young looks, but if you looked hard enough the resemblance shined through. We were both tall, with long faces and strong jaws. The roots of our being related were very complex and messy. I mean soap-opera messy, but with hot succubus drama and crippling death curses. Suffice it to say that a whole lot of sadness had come from our conceptions and ultimate births, but that didn't change the fact that we were brothers. Blood of the same mother. And I'd fight like hell to keep him and his loved ones safe, and I was pretty sure he'd do the same for me.

But judging by his expression, he wasn't here to express sentimentality. He wore a loose white shirt that did well to showcase his lean musculature, and jeans that were artistically torn. Thomas tore his gaze from the window and looked over his shoulder, obviously agitated. I frowned and followed his eyes. Nothing but cars and bad traffic. "What's going on, Thomas?"

"Did a man come by your office recently?" he asked urgently, dark eyes meeting mine. "Medium-aged, firmly built, five o clock shadow?"

"He did, actually. Said he needed my help with a job. Why, do you know him?"

Thomas gripped me by the shoulders and squeezed. Thomas was a White Court vampire, capable of superhuman feats of strength and endurance far above any insignificant little Olympian athlete. It hurt. "Did he tell you where he went?"

"I'd answer you, but the feeling that my arms are about to be torn from their sockets seems to have hampered my ability to be cooperative."

Thomas grunted and let go. I scowled and rubbed at my shoulders. "Jeez. You guys have beef with him or something?"

My brother sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I tend to stay out of family business, but Lara threatened to flambé me if I didn't help out. My sisters have put a bounty on John Winchester, alive but not necessarily unharmed. They want to have a go at him before they're done."

I could only imagine what kind of twisted horrors Lara and her sisters had in mind for an enemy. So John Winchester was in mortal danger, apparently. One more damn thing to worry about. "Is that why you haven't been home for the past couple of days?" Thomas roomed with me ever since a fiasco at Château Raith involving him being a sacrifice in a ritual designed to kill little old me. Both of us had a lot on the line that night. He'd been absent from my basement apartment for two days, leaving me conflicted as to whether I should feel worried or blissfully content. He had a habit of leaving his designer clothes lying about and inviting pretty young girls to stay for a night. And my place was poorly insulated.

"Yeah, pretty much." He closed his eyes and leaned against the Beetle. "We've been searching all around Chicago for this guy. The closest we've gotten was Mac's pub, but we couldn't touch him there. We take our eyes off the place for one second and he's off the radar. Whoever he is, he's good."

I joined Thomas by the Beetle, slightly anxious our combined weight would flatten her. She held, fortunately. "Yeah well, he's got a lot on his plate. Sooner or later he'll trip, and every nasty thing this side of Paradise is gonna jump on his tail."

"What was he at your office for?"

I debated on whether to tell Thomas everything. In the end, I figured we'd been through enough together, and he was family. I didn't have the right to withhold too much information from him. I'd tell him the truth, but not the whole truth. "Someone tipped him off about me. He came for help hunting a monster. One that's been killing people recently."

Thomas nodded. "You mean the daeva?"

My explanation caught in my throat and backpedaled furiously. Thomas knew about the daeva. That meant he had access to a scary pool of information. A pool of information probably formed, managed and maintained by his sister, Lara. Questions began to stack up in my head. "Why do your sisters want John Winchester?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Vengeance, I guess. Did he tell you he was a hunter?"

I nodded. "Sure. What, don't tell me the guy's hunting White Court vampires." If that were true, the only knowledge I'd have on John was on an obituary. The White Court wasn't your typical Bram Stoker kind of vamp. They fed on emotion and sensation, potent life energy. Thomas' House specifically fed on carnal lust, the kind usually generated through sex. They were the quintessential predator: strong, fast, smart, and completely attractive to their prey. Hunting them was a bad idea, and doing that normally ended up with you on a bed getting your life sucked out of you (literally).

Thomas snorted. "Hardly. He's taken down a few of the lesser breed on occasion. It's happened before, and we never stick our hands in it unless it directly affects our business. But this time it's personal. Apparently the hunter slew one of Lara's boytoys not too long ago, and Lara's itching for payback."

I turned towards him. "Hold on. Did you say 'lesser breed'? Because I'm pretty sure there're only three kinds of vampire. Four, if you want to go global."

Thomas smiled and looked at me. "I slipped. You never heard that."

"No. You are not going to just slide that under the bed-"

Thomas brought his hand up. "It's done. Anyways, how are things with the daeva?"

I sighed. We weren't done talking about it, but he was right. I had bigger things to worry about. "Crappy. I'm not a single step closer to finding out where this thing's hiding. And if I don't do that before sundown, it won't be too long until the body count rises."

"And you said the Winchester man was trying to look for it as well?"

"Yeah. Although I doubt he's any closer to finding out its den than I am. You wouldn't know anything about killing a shadow god, would you?"

Thomas chuckled. "I wish. Lara's more of the expert on supernatural lore, unfortunately. If you want help, go to her."

There was less chance of that happening than the daeva waltzing through my front door with a pretty red bow tied on its head. "No offense, Thomas, but I wouldn't piss on your older sister even if she was on fire."

Thomas shrugged. "None taken. She scares me more than anything in the world, believe you me." He looked at me, and I saw the naked fear plain as day. "She's got Justine, Harry. She's using her as leverage if I don't help out with this stupid manhunt."

I swallowed, my throat dry. Justine. Thomas' forbidden love, so much so that they couldn't touch each other without him sustaining third-degree burns. She was beautiful, kind, and a little bat-shit crazy, but she was the one bright thing in Thomas' otherwise lonely and terrible life. He'd almost killed her (unintentionally, mind you) when she'd offered herself up to heal him, but she got out mentally scarred but alive. Presently she was recovering under Lara's employment, which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Tough luck, bro," I said. "I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do…"

Thomas shook his head. "Just inform me the next time you see or hear of John Winchester. The sooner we nab the son of a bitch the better."

I frowned. "Wait, hold on. You can't possibly mean to bring him to Lara for her sick, personal enjoyment."

Thomas met my gaze, and there was no trace of triviality in his eyes. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep my Justine safe, Harry. You know that."

Hell's Bell's. Thomas was actually serious about hunting down John Winchester. Even if I told him about John, and the fact that he had a son in the city, I doubted he'd change his mind. I licked my lips. "Thomas, I need this guy unharmed, you hear? He's helping out with the daeva hunt, and he's more important than you know."

"All I know, Harry, is that Justine is in danger if I don't see this through." He leaned forward, his nose inches from mine. "And I know you'll do anything to keep her safe. That's what you promised."

The frustrating thing was that he was right. I made a promise to him and Justine that I'd look out for her, no matter the cost. But I hadn't foreseen that I'd be split over the lives of a father and his son and Justine. How could I have predicted that? My headache worsened. "Look, Thomas. I need you to trust me on this. I can't let Lara get her hands on John Winchester."

"Fine. Then you'd better hope I don't find him first."

Thomas began to walk away from the parking lot. "Thomas!" I called after him. "Come on, man, don't be like this!"

He waved goodbye and continued walking. I stared after his retreating form until he rounded the edge of my office and disappeared. I slumped against the Beetle, defeated. Just when my brother was getting the hang of being normal, Lara decided to pull a total bitch move on him and pull him back to the world of succubae and death. A part of me wanted to throw a punch at him out of pure frustration.

But Thomas was going through a lot recently, and his sister threatening to take Justine away from him might've been the last straw. He was torn, like me, but in a much harder way. I could only imagine what kind of pain inner turmoil he was going through. I felt for him, and was a little scared. Fear had inhabited those eyes of his, but there was no mistaking the raw Hunger lurking just beneath.

Thomas was on a diet, per say. Ever since the incident with Justine he'd wanted to forsake the Raith way and become a vegetarian vampire, if you will. He didn't feed off the life energy of anyone, or at least full on. He had a few bites every now and then, but only from loud, messy one-night stands that had me up at night cursing life. Lara must've been working him hard enough to allow his personal demons to resurface, and that I couldn't possibly understand to the extent he did. The best I could compare it to was being surrounded by hundreds of Whoppers every lasting moment of your eternal life and restraining yourself from taking even one tiny, insignificant bite. An infinite state of torturous starvation. That's what my brother had to face every day.

Small wonder he wasn't being so agreeable today.

When I made it back to my apartment, I went straight to my lab and kicked the shelf Bob was perched on. "I need you, Bob," I growled, sitting down next to my almost-complete Little Chicago. Bob's eye sockets flickered erratically.

"Really?" he said, mock-surprised. "I couldn't tell."

I ran a hand through my hair and extricated myself from the humid confines of my duster. Sometimes the thing was a real pain to wear. I sighed and leaned back, closing my eyes. "I've got nothing," I said. "Absolutely nothing. I don't know where to start and what to do."

"That's hardly a first, boss."

I opened one eye and glared at him. "Let's pull back the sass and focus, Bob. I've got seven hours till sundown, and if I don't get a good idea of where this daeva's going to be, blood's going to be spilt."

"Alright, alright, I get it. You're stressed. Hell, I would be too if I was as emotional and hot-headed as you. But what can we do?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Okay. Let's go through this systematically. Number one: I assume you've guessed that the likeliest place this thing is hiding is in Undertown. Monster Central. And although you've been down there before, now it's going to be a lot tougher to navigate."

My recent ventures into the dark, dank, and deep tunnels of Chicago ended up with me aboveground solely because I'd known where I was going. There were pre-designated pathways and directional signs that had told me where to turn and where not to turn. Even then the experience wasn't real pretty. Going in blind was damn near suicidal. But I'd covered that, and I didn't want to hear old news from my biggest source of magical intelligence.

"I figured that. What else?"

"Number two: the daeva's a monster you've never encountered before," Bob continued. "It's powerful as hell, and it won't give you second chances like some of the more egocentric sons of bitches you've gone up against. You've got to hit it fast and with a ton of preparation, and with that comes knowledge and time. Both of which you sorely lack."

I grunted. "Get to the point."

"My point is, Harry," he trailed, enunciating carefully. "Your luck is running out, and while we deliberate over this the daeva is biding its time and getting stronger. It's up to you to make a decision. I can't do that for you."

I nodded, feeling as if the world was on my shoulders. Bob was right. Which pissed me off, but also gave this situation a lot more clarity. I'd been sitting in my office for hours wracking my brains out to figure out the perfectly precise solution to this mess, but problems like this needed a hammer, not a scalpel. I needed to make a choice and stick with it, full throttle. I sat there for a full thirty minutes deliberating on which choice to make, none of them particularly clever or bright. Almost all of them included yours truly in mortal danger, and bearing an 85% chance of gory death.

When I stood up and made the decision, I felt sick to my stomach. Bob perked up, his eyes flaming. "What's it going to be?"

The answer was there in front of me all along, but I'd been too afraid to confront it other than addressing it. I had danced jigs around it and even dismissed it, but now I knew it to be the right decision. I didn't want it to be, but I couldn't control probability. And right now the odds were against me. It was my best possible chance, and if I didn't take that chance…people might die again.

And I not only owed it to myself, but to Murphy, to see it through.

"Bob," I said, facing him. "You're going out with me tonight."

"Right. Usually I'd make some tasteless homosexual joke, but I've got a feeling you're about to do something very, very stupid."

I grinned. "Pack your bags, sport, because we're going for a ride."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"You've had some pretty idiotic ideas in the past, boss, but this one probably takes the cake."

As I walked up the steps to Saint Mary of the Angels Church, I made sure that Bob was tucked securely in the knapsack I'd grabbed from under my couch. Showing the skull out in public was a bad idea, and had great potential for getting my head on the chopping block. Other than the fact that it'd be just plain weird for me to be carrying a bleached human skull in midtown Chicago, he was kind of a secret in regards to the White Council. I kind of picked him up amidst the burning ruins of my former mentor Justin DuMorne's home, unbeknownst to my fellow Wardens and the Senior Council.

If they discovered that I possessed the valuable tool of not only DuMorne but of Heinrich Kemmler, the infamous necromancer whose legacy started a nasty fiasco not too long ago, there wouldn't be a trial or jury. They'd most likely execute me in front of the judicial body of the council. I could think of a few Wardens who'd be happy to volunteer as executioner (cough Morgan cough), but the one I'd be most scared to face would be Ebenezer McCoy, a Senior Council member and the grizzled old wizard who'd raised me from age 16 and up. He'd probably beat my ass up and down the block before the Merlin yelled "off with his head".

I looked around before I entered the hallowed interior of the church. Bob made an "aahhh" sound as I walked inside. "Feels nice in here," he whispered. "All holy and stuff."

"Shut up," I hissed. "No more talking from here on out."

"Got it, boss. Over and out."

He finally shut up, and I could breathe again.

Two large arms suddenly grabbed me from behind and lifted me up as if to throw me. I squealed (in a very manly way) and squirmed in my assailant's grip. Booming laughter stopped my hand from reaching for my blasting rod. "Long time no see, no?" Sanya chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled. I felt slightly emasculated. "What are you going to do now, kiss me?"

"Eh. You are not pretty enough."

"That's good to know."

"Ah, you've returned."

Father Forthill appeared from some Priest Portal hidden in one of the pews. Lately he had a habit of sneaking up on me, which usually didn't happen. He was arranging his clerical attire, like he'd just put it on. Odd, I couldn't picture the man in anything else besides his priest clothing. Sanya boomed once more and slapped my back. I resisted the urge to moan in pain. "Hey, Padre," I said through gritted teeth. "Is Michael here?"

"I am here."

Michael came out from a side hall, fully decked in his warrior gear. Both he and Sanya were wearing the Knights of the Cross uniform: long white cloaks emblazoned with scarlet crosses over similarly decorated white surcoats. They wore their swords at their hips, and the only main difference between their apparel was that Michael wore an honest-to-God breastplate while Sanya had on a Kevlar vest and ballistic strike plates. A striking difference, but each served their own purpose. Although Sanya had more protection against modern weaponry, a slice of a sword would tear the vest to ribbons. Vice versa for the big man.

"Aren't we all dressed up today," I said, whistling.

"We'd rather be overly prepared than taken by surprise," Michael replied. "And we'll risk the hot weather to exterminate this dark beast."

Sanya joined Michael and jutted his chin at me. "You dress like Western bum. Why the women's bag?"

I opened my mouth and tried to respond to both insults at once but it probably came out as nonsensical gibberish. I took a deep breath and tried again. "Screw you. I've got all the defense I need. And it's not a 'woman's bag', Sanya, it's a little carry-on. I store potions in it in case of emergencies."

"I do not think the demon will tremble in fear of simple potion."

I shrugged. "Could be a pansy, for all we know."

Michael cut through our conversation with a raised hand. "We will not know anything unless we track it down and see for ourselves. Where is it, Harry?"

I nodded, chastised. "I don't know its exact hiding place, but I've got a good idea of the general area its using. It'll require dark, enclosed spaces, foul odors, and lots and lots of walking."

Sanya lifted his finger. "Like the Mines of Moria."

I almost applauded. "Keep it up and you'll get an honorary Fellowship card."

I saw the expression on Michael's face and returned to the matter at hand. "So we'll use your truck?"

Michael grunted in agreement. I waved them forward. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you."

The Knights looked at me, and then traded a look. Michael nodded and led Sanya out the back. Once the door closed, I turned to Father Forthill. "John Winchester came by this morning. He said you listed me as help against the daeva."

Father Forthill sighed. "Yes, yes. I assume there's been trouble?"

"Yeah. But don't worry about that. All I want to know is how a man like John Winchester is in contact with you, and how much he knows about…all of this."

Father Forthill nodded and rested a hand on the back pew. "John Winchester is a good man. He might come off as distant and rough, but under that exterior is a frightened and vulnerable human being. He's gone through too much to be labeled an ordinary mortal."

I narrowed my eyes at the priest. "With all due respect, Father, there's something you're not telling me. I'd like to know what that something is."

Those robin's-egg blue eyes blinked up at me kindly. His already aged face seemed much more weary and fatigued than before. "You know I care for you, Harry. And I mean this with all the love of a friend: you are not ready to know. I told John the appropriate information simply because I knew he'd discard it all later on. The things I know might be a burden on your soul forever if I told you."

I half-smiled out of amusement. "I'm a tough guy, Father. I can handle it."

"All in due time. Although I do have a feeling you will find out much regardless of me saying anything."

What was that supposed to mean? I merely shrugged and clapped his shoulder. "Thanks, I guess. Do me a favor and put a word in for me Upstairs? I need all the help I can get at this point."

Forthill laughed. It was rich and genuine, and it seemed to tear away the years of stress and pain with every rolling chuckle. I couldn't help but beam back. "I'll see what I can do, Harry," he finally said. "Godspeed."

I made a thumbs-up and jogged all the way to the end of the sanctuary. I met Michael and Sanya out in the back, where the Chicago sun threatened to boil me alive inside of my leather duster. The Knights, on the other hand, looked perfectly okay. "Jerks," I muttered under my breath as I got in the truck.

"Totally," Bob whispered conspiratorially.

"Shut up, you little…!"

Michael froze half-way in inserting the key into the ignition and fixed me a look. I laughed nervously and slowly put on my seatbelt on the passenger's side. "Just a pre-battle thing," I explained. "Nothing like a little self-deprecation to pump you up."

Michael arched his brow and sighed, while Sanya began to laugh again. "Americans," he said mid-guffaw. Out of Michael's sight range, I flipped the Russian off. He only laughed more.

"Where to, Harry?" the older Knight asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.

"Wrigley Field," I said, settling in. "We're going to Undertown."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was the staring that gave them away.

John slowly sipped his iced water, peering at the reflection housed in the polished napkin holder on the table. The café was bustling, but in the midst of the civilian mass he could see a set of piercing blue eyes straying towards him far too often from the corner of the room. At a closer inspection, when some of the customers cleared out, he saw a very beautiful, distinguished-looking woman seated in the booth cushion. She wore expensive clothing that was too professional to be scandalous but arranged well-enough to draw the eye. Platinum blonde hair fell straight down around her striking pale face and black coat. His heart did a little tumble at the sight of her, and John was certain most of the males in the room were sneaking quick glances to admire her.

Women with such perfect, exquisite beauty like that simply didn't exist; much less eat at places like Kurvari's Pastries. After his initial infatuation, cold logic replaced passion, and the room suddenly felt much colder than cheap air-conditioning. Right, women like that didn't exist.

Human women, at least.

John downed his iced water and crushed the white Styrofoam in his hand. He stood up, threw his trash in the bin by the door, and walked out. As he strolled past the transparent window the shop, he risked a quick look at the interior.

The woman was gone.

His nerves rang like alarm klaxons in his head. Something was horribly wrong. John quickened his pace, eyes flitting to and fro but keeping his head as motionless as possible. He had 20/20 vision, so he could see clearly despite the summer haze, and senses honed and perfected by his stint in the USMC consumed his surroundings detail by detail, no matter how minute or seemingly insignificant. One, by the coffee shop. Brown curls like hot chocolate and a figure most girls would kill for. Ethereal beauty, but too good to be true. Two, across the street. They were crossing an intersection, posing as a couple holding hands. Impossibly good looks, designer clothing, too good for downtown Chicago. More like Times Square. The woman from the pastry shop was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean she wasn't watching.

John turned the corner and vanished into an alley. The couple had just traversed the pedestrian crossing, and their congenial behavior and lovey-dovey looks disappeared without a trace. They removed their hands from each other's grips and stopped by the alley, staring into its belly, the way half-concealed in angular shadows and smoke from ground vents. They glanced at each other, no emotion save for ice-cold calculation. Across the street, the brunette took out a phone and began to speak quietly, and in a respectful tone.

The couple nodded to each other and walked into the alley.

The female's heels clacked loudly on the concrete, but she didn't mind. The male, however, did, and he threw her a look so full of venom that she scowled and took off her shoes, throwing them by a dirty, torn trash bag. Their footsteps receded into nothingness, but not because they were gone. They moved in complete silence, like a jungle cat; all movement precise and deliberate.

The alley was silent save for the nearby sounds of the city by the alley's mouth. They were far enough from the sidewalk and streets to be unseen by the general public, which was the intent of both the hunter and the hunted. The male stepped forward a little more, but was stopped by a hand motion from the female. She cocked her head, just like a raptor, and sniffed. Her sniffs drew her to look upwards, straight into the light of the noonday sun. She blinked, and in the brief moment of time it took for her to blink, John Winchester stepped into the rays of the sun from his position on the fire escape and pulled back the hammer of his silenced Beretta.

The female snarled and moved out of the way, but by then John had already pulled the trigger.

The single round hissed through the air and punched a neat round hole in her shoulder, just above and to the right of her defined collarbone. Pale, whiteish blood spurted from the wound, and the hunter's suspicions were confirmed. Whomever was tracking him were not humans. They were most likely extremely dangerous monsters who physically outmatched him by a mile. But John was oh so used to that.

The female cursed in pain and dove out of the way and John fired two more shots in her direction. The bullets kicked up chips of concrete in the wake of the girl's flight. John gripped the railing of the fire escape and looked down, already searching for the male. He heard a clanging of metal below him. Looking down, he saw the well-dressed male barreling up the stairs, and fast. John cursed and fired through the slots of the stairway's metal frame. His marksmanship was excellent back in the Corps, but the target was too quick and the openings too small. It was only a matter of seconds before the male reached his position. John walked over to the stairs and fired once more at his opponent.

The bullet hit this time, and he celebrated silently as the stopping force repulsed the male back a couple of steps. But whatever these things were, bullets weren't slowing them down much. John's heart rate was accelerating at this point, but his mind was working just as fast. Tactics drew themselves on imaginary, mental white boards, and John could almost hear his old drill master screaming for him to move his ass. In the blink of an eye John grunted and vaulted over the fire escape's railing.

Just when the female was soaring towards him.

But he'd been expecting that. When he'd shot the advancing male he'd spied the female crawling up the opposite stairwell like a spider. He'd anticipated her acrobatic move and timed his jump just enough for him to crash into the surprised female and hammer her head in with the butt of his gun. He felt a dull thud, and the female howled in pain. As they fell, the hunter realized her skull was much harder than expected, and her previous scream was not from pain, but from pure, indignant fury.

"Worthless kine," she hissed at him. The female gripped his arms, and it felt like two steel clamps were being driven around his biceps. Fire burned up his arms. "I will make sure to drain you dry when this farce is over."

When they landed, John was on top. The impact lessened her grip just enough for John to force down the aching, peel away and take off running towards the sidewalk. John wasn't a coward; he was being a realist. And the reality was that the two monsters in the alley were too tough for him to handle alone. If he had his sons it would've been a different story, but the whole point of him being in Chicago was to find his sons in the first place. And if gunshots wouldn't stop them, there was very little John could do without the appropriate equipment.

There was a white blur, and the female was in front of him. She smiled, and it should've been breathtakingly gorgeous to look at, but all John felt was a chilling fear. The female sauntered over to him, all hips and long legs. "Naughty Johnny," she chided in a hypnotic voice. John's limbs trembled. _Goddammit, pull yourself together! _"You've been a bad boy, haven't you?"

John spat on her perfectly manicured feet. She grimaced in disgust, and John bared his teeth. "Fuck you, bitch."

The female laughed, and it was one of the most delightfully terrifying things the hunter had ever heard in his life. "Come now, Johnny boy. Aren't you going to buy me dinner first?"

"Quit playing with your food, Madeline," the male said from behind John. The hunter almost jumped out of his own boots. He resisted the urge to whirl and unload his ammunition into the thing that had snuck up behind him. Instead, he gritted his teeth and faced his front. The female, Madeline, tittered girlishly.

"Lighten up, Thomas," she teased. "You're just grumpy you can't have him. I know you like them easy."

"Why don't you quit talking about me and see for yourself how easy I am, ugly," John growled, lifting his sidearm.

Madeline's beautiful face suddenly turned still as marble, and terror enveloped John's heart for a split second. The moment passed, and Madeline smiled. "Oh, I will enjoy this," she purred. "I will enjoy ripping the life out of you as you writhe and scream for more."

Thomas shifted behind John, and the hunter matched his movement. "Madeline," the male warned. They seemed to know each other, close friends or family maybe. Another tidbit of useless information as John knew he would most likely die in the next few seconds. "Lara wants him alive. She'll tear you a new one the moment she finds out you've touched him."

Madeline snorted, her mesmerizing eyes never leaving John. "Oh boo hoo. Lara can cry over her darling Antonio all she wants, but this stupid kine is mine and mine alone."

"Lara will have your hide hanging above the hearth, idiot."

"You know what?" John grunted. "You guys talk too much."

He raised his gun and pulled the trigger twice.

Madeline cackled and let the first round hit her in the side. The second flew past as she disappeared in another white blur. John tried to track her movement, but at the same time he had deducted she had feigned to his right and moved left, she was right next to him. Her milky white leg flashed before his eyes, and the next thing he knew he was flying with a fiery pain burning his ribs.

He hit the wall with a smack and a groan. John fell to the ground, nursing his side. She must've cracked a rib or two, because it hurt like nobody's business. He opened his bleary eyes to see her lovely face staring right at him, not five inches away. His breath caught in his throat involuntarily.

"Such a handsome man," she said. Her pink tongue appeared from her mouth and traced a path across her upper lip. "So brave. Oh, yes, you'll be positively excellent."

"Madeline…" Thomas warned.

"Shut up, boy. I have power over perky little Justine just as much as dear Lara."

Thomas simmered quietly from behind her but otherwise said nothing. Madeline shook her dark curls and smiled, eyes half-lidded. "Just a quick bite, shall we?"

She leaned over and kissed John on the cheek.

Sensation. Pure, utter, blissful sensation. The kiss detonated a firestorm of undiluted pleasure, sending waves of sexual desire washing over every nerve and vein of John's wounded body. Nothing he'd ever felt could add up to how he felt now. The hunter suddenly didn't care about the daeva, the wizard, or even his rebellious sons. All he wanted was to take that Madeline bitch and drive her to the ground until he howled his dominance and emptied his fill. Then he'd do it again and again and again until there was nothing left of him but an empty husk of a man. And John knew he'd enjoy it all the while.

He was so lost in the effects of the toxin that he almost didn't realize Madeline's screams until they'd wore out. John opened his eyes, feeling feverishly hot and two pants sizes too tight. Madeline was curled against the far wall, clutching at her mouth with both of her delicate hands. Thomas stood not too far off, staring at John with a mixture of fascination and amusement. Madeline took her palms from her lips to reveal that they were charred to a crispy black. Smoke still curled from the tips. John could have laughed, but his voice was hoarse and dry.

"Impossible," Madeline hissed. "His spouse died twenty-three years ago. It should be long gone by now!"

"Maybe there's more to this guy than what Lara lets on," Thomas said, peering at John curiously.

"That all you got, sugar?" John chuckled, regaining his voice. "Come on. I've had younger gals last longer than that." Despite his bravado, every inch of the hunter's body ached like hell. He was getting too old for this, he had to begrudgingly admit.

Madeline's face once more contorted into a mask of alien wrath and cold hatred, but this time she was blocked by the muscular frame of the male, Thomas. "You've got some attitude," he said, arms crossed. "I can respect that. I'm guessing your sons aren't too different. You see, I know a guy who pretty much acts the same way, and he gets screwed over by his own mouth more times than I can count."

"Seems like a fun guy," John breathed, suddenly losing his voice again. He felt weak, like he'd just run several miles. Thomas smiled and leaned forward, his face slowly hardening into the same pale, alien features of the girl. _He's draining me,_ John realized grimly. _Bastard's draining me._

"I'm sorry, John," Thomas said, his voice fading away as the world receded into edges black as night. "I really am. But I've got a lot riding on this. You'll understand. I know you will…"

John Winchester closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

**AN: I'm writing this at one in the morning, so please forgive any stupid mistakes or typos. Feel free to point them out, though. The next chapter will be much longer, I promise! As always, leave a review on your way out, they're really encouraging! **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Regarding timeline: Supernatural/S1E16 – Dresden Files/Pre-Proven Guilty.**

* * *

It's always nerve-wracking when you go down, down, down into Undertown.

It's dark. I don't mean twilight dark, I mean the electricity goes out and it's so pitch black you can't see your hand even if you held it right in front of your face dark. It's wet, it's cold, and many times you're alone. Or so you think.

There's a reason why we're scared of the dark. Sure, some grown-ups like to poke fun at little kids for not wanting to sleep without the night light on, but they're just as susceptible to the fear as they are. That instinctive reproach from lightless places is so hardwired into our psyche that mere age and time cannot dull its effects. It's been there ever since ancient man huddled by the fire, peeking over his hairy shoulder at the surrounding sea of total black. The darkness holds the unknown, and that which we cannot see we fear. When it's dark, we're vulnerable. Vulnerability begets weakness, and weakness is what predators look out for. You start imagining things. Horrible, terrible things creeping out from the utter darkness and reaching with wicked claws for your pale, shivering neck. And just when you think its imagination, you're grabbed, and then you're nothing but a late night snack.

Morbid? Sure. Truthful? You have no idea.

So when I led two of the remaining Knights of the Cross down through the sewage system beneath Wrigley Field and into the borders of Undertown, I was a little scared. We were in Undertown hunting a daeva, a freaking shadow god. Don't get me wrong, Michael and Sanya were the best at what they do, but I think my unease was acceptable considering the circumstances. Bob was silent in my bag, just like I'd told him to be, but I'd begun to miss his wisecracks. That's when I knew I was really scared.

"How much longer?" Sanya asked from behind. His voice was eerily magnified in the sewer-like halls. I almost jumped.

"Not long," I replied. "It's got to be here somewhere."

Michael cleared his throat. "Harry. You do know where it is, right?"

I swallowed nervously. "Uh. Generally speaking, yeah."

Michael sighed. "In other words, you have no idea."

I shushed him. "Please! A man's got to work. Give me a minute."

I strolled a little further down the dank hall until I was certain I was out of earshot. I could hear the Knights mumbling behind me, but their words were incoherent. Satisfied, I slowly lifted the flap of my satchel. "Bob," I whispered. "A little help here."

Bob's eye socket's glowed in the interior of the bag. "Ooohhh. Undertown's is bad as I hear it is. All kinds of dark auras stinking up the place."

"Good. That's a start. Now, I want you to help me locate the trail of the daeva, if it ever went down here."

"Why don't you just use your Sight?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because, Bob. I don't want to be a drooling vegetable for the entirety of my wizardly life. Now just get on with it."

"Sheesh. You're grumpy today. How do you even know I can do this?"

"Because you're Bob. And as much as I hate to say it, you can do a whole lot of stuff I can't."

"Aw shucks. You're making me blush."

"Bob…" I growled.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, boss, I'm doing it," he said. He hummed tunelessly for a moment. "Make a right."

I frowned. "Wow. That was really fast."

"Eh, it wasn't that hard. The daeva's trail left echoes in the Nevernever. Pretty distinguishable ones, too."

I arched an eyebrow. Leaving footprints in the Nevernever required a lot of potent energy, but many times that could end up differently. Many beings that couldn't control their power left huge swathes of magical residue etched into both the mortal realm and the supernatural fabric of the other side. But, if they were good enough, they could restrain that energy just enough to withhold all that outpour, dampen the effects. It was helpful in chaotic situations, where time was on their side. But, luckily for me, the result was the same either way. A trail was left, and that meant I could trace it.

"How far do you think it goes?" I whispered. Michael and Sanya were starting to walk towards me now, footsteps bouncing around the corridor.

"I don't know. Maybe a few miles or so?"

That meant more walking. "You'll direct me?"

"Of course, skipper."

"Harry?" Sanya asked, frowning. "Who are you talking to?"

"No one," I exclaimed, turning casually and smiling. "But myself, of course. I was trying to think of ways to track it down when you came along."

"And have you found anything yet?" Michael asked.

"A direction." I pointed down the right path of the hallway that branched out from the main one. "This way."

"How do you know?"

"Part gut feeling and part magical savvy. The daeva's no slouch, but it leaves footprints like anything else, invisible or not. Come on."

And so we walked. And walked. And walked some more. It was a bit like spelunking, the whole underground experience, only this was a whole lot more dangerous, in my opinion. Eventually, sewage systems gave way to damp earth, and soon we were traversing the gloomy, literal underbelly of Chicago. Support struts jutted out from the ground like stone shrines from a forgotten age; a metal framework long since abandoned and left to sink into the soil. Old house foundations creaked under our feet as we entered the residential area of Undertown.

Although housing much of the supernatural ilk, Undertown wasn't stranger to mortal tampering. Smugglers would traverse its depths in the days of Prohibition, ferrying illegal goods under the city, away from the authorities that were not in their pockets. It also housed the Manhattan Project before it, you know, was moved to a place not near millions of unsuspecting civilian lives. Tinkering with atom-splitting under the third largest city in America must've come across as a potentially Bad Thing to the higher-ups back in the day. All in all, everyone had a hand in it, but none came to stay. Only things that feared the light of the sun dared to make a home in Undertown.

Many of the pathways we crossed were old maintenance tunnels built by Chicagoans back in the day, but some were of a more sinister construction. We entered a tunnel with walls slick with light, yellow ooze that smelled of mildew and urine. I had to fight back a vomit. Whatever had done that was big, ugly, and must be avoided at all costs. I didn't want to meet the son of a bitch that made entire hallways with its body and secreted a disgusting liquid.

Sanya coughed noisily once we exited that nightmare. "That is disgusting."

"I couldn't agree more."

"Harry," Michael sighed. "Why do I get the feeling you're leading us on a wild goose chase?"

"Lighten up, Michael," I nervously ran my hand down the strap of the bag. "We're getting close."

I heard a catch to his voice. "Alicia has a game today."

I stopped. Sanya did likewise, and let out a low whistle. My ears began to burn in shame. Alicia was one of Michael's children, a cute little girl who enjoyed playing softball and thought I was a little weird. Well, very weird, but that's beside the point. Apparently she'd had a game today, and Michael was missing out. No father should miss out on his daughter's life. In my endeavor to hunt the daeva, I'd happily dragged Michael into it as well, regardless of his consent. Of course he'd volunteer; he was a good man, the best man I've ever known. But his volunteering to help didn't change the fact that I'd made the poor guy miss his daughter's softball game. I thought about how many times I'd asked for Michael's help on a job, and how many times he'd had to eject himself from his normal life to come save my ass.

No wonder Charity hated my guts.

I faced him. "I'm really sorry, Michael," I tried hard to make it sound as sincere as I felt. "I really am. But you're going to have to trust me on this."

Michael sighed. "I trust you, Harry. You are my closest friend-"

Sanya raised his hand. "Shh! Can you hear that?"

I frowned. "Hear what?"

"That…noise."

"Well that helps."

"Listen," Michael whispered, his hand straying to the hilt of _Amoracchius_. "I can hear it as well."

"Alright, what can everybody hear that I can't?"

That was when I heard it.

A faint skittering noise, like jacks being thrown across a table. Only this sound was drawn-out, continuous, and getting louder. I gripped my blasting rod, turning to face the way from which we came. I sniffed the air. I grimaced. "That's foul." Something bad was coming for us.

The skittering became louder. I began to hear slathering noises, like hundreds of people were simultaneously licking their lips noisily through a comms system. The nape of my neck tingled. "Hold," I said. Michael and Sanya flanked me, swords already drawn. I looked back and noticed their blades shining brightly in the murk. "They could just be passing through."

The giant spider rounded the corner, all eight of its tennis ball-sized eyes glowing eerily as it focused on me. In the center of its oval, hairy head, a very human mouth parted to reveal white fangs dripping with venom, and a long, purple tongue darting back and forth. It tasted the air and shivered. Every childhood nightmare about horrifically gigantic arachnids coming to devour me greedily became a gruesome reality. It yowled; the horrible sound piercing my ears and sending chills all around my body. Five more appeared behind it, skittering lightly on the damp soil.

There was a brief moment of charged silence.

Licking my dry lips, I took one step back.

They hissed, pale poison spraying, and surged forward.

_"In nomine Dei!"_ Michael roared, his voice gargantuan, too large and magnified to come from a mere human's throat. The burning power of the Sword of the Cross spilled forth in a wash of pure light, blinding the spiders and causing them to hiss and rear back. A miniature star erupted in the heart of Undertown. _"Lava quod est sordium! Sana quod est saucium!"_

Michael brought _Amoracchius _down upon the lead beast with a furious bellow. The blade cut the thing clean in half, making it spew dark blood for a second until the fatal wound cauterized. The scent of burnt flesh cut into my nostrils. A squeal escaped its eerily simian lips before the light blinked out of its eight green eyes. It collapsed, dead.

The other spiders hissed angrily and gathered around Michael, dodging his measured sword strokes with an alien quickness. They moved like a pack, well-coordinated and technical in every step and jab. One saw his blind spot and pounced, all eight of its hairy legs (half as tall as my body) spread wide to wrap around my friend's body. I sucked in a breath and ran forward, my blasting rod out.

Sanya beat me to it, leaping the gap with tremendous strength, even with the added weight of his cloak and body armor. He didn't recite prayers in Latin, but the stentorian roar that ripped from his throat was challenge enough. _Esperacchius _sliced through the stale, thin air, taking off four of the spider's legs in mid-jump. The spider squealed in pain, but it was cut short with an upward stab from Sanya. The blade speared the monster through the abdomen, silencing it forever. The Knights stood back to back, warding off the four remaining spiders with periodic swipes.

I pointed my blasting rod at one of the creatures while its back was turned. _"Fuego!"_ I yelled. A geyser of scorching hot flame erupted from the tip of my focus, crossing the short distance with a deafening scream. The fire devoured the spider whole, illuminating the eerie hallway with a blinding flash of red and orange. The thing was still alive as it hissed and burned, trying to douse the flames with its movement. It collided with its brethren, Michael and Sanya darting to the side just in time. The flames reached another spider, and soon both were being cooked alive by my fires. I blew smoke off the tip of my rod. "There's two more," I pointed out. "One for each of you."

Sanya sliced one spider in half and kebabed the other before I even completed the sentence. He smiled, his teeth glowing in the dimness. "Two for me."

Michael pointed _Amoracchius _down the hall. Shadows were flickering in the light of the still-burning flames. "Careful. More are coming." Sure enough, the skittering sound started again, only this time it was much, much louder.

"Emphasis on the word 'more'," I said. The brief scuffle must've attracted the whole damn spider family. I began to regret not bringing my staff. It was a heck of a lot more versatile than my blasting rod, useful as it is. I cursed. Why the hell hadn't I brought my staff? Every wizard brought his staff to a party.

"What do we do?" Sanya asked, taking up a defensive stance. I tapped him on the back of his head with my blasting rod.

"We sure as hell don't fight," Bob muttered, damnably calm. "Does the Ruskie want us to die?"

"Here's a good idea," I breathed as the first spider rounded the bend. Christ. It was even bigger than the last. I even forgot to tell Bob to shut his stupid mouth. "Run!"

So, we ran.

**XXXXX**

_Sam was running._

_ He didn't know where. He didn't know much of anything, really. What he did know was that something was chasing him. It was chasing him down through the corridor of an abandoned building, where the light bulbs overhead flickered erratically as he passed. And whatever it was, it was bad. Bad enough for Sam to literally _feel _the Stygian blackness rushing for him like a tidal wave of icy air. Pure, malevolent intent hounded his heels and breathed down his neck, threatening and taunting him with every step, knowing that it could take the hunter down any second but it was just too damn fun to stop. Sam, with grim clarity, realized that this was what sheer terror felt like._

_ He was nearly at the exit. Hope flooded his every thought and drove his arms and legs like pistons. He could do it. He could make it out before this evil son of a bitch took him down and tore him to pieces. Sam wasn't about to die anytime soon. Not like this._

_By then, the thing was done with playing around, and a hand as cold as ice took him by the ankle and pulled. Sam cried out and fell, hitting the floor with a thud that expelled all air from his lungs. He turned on his back with the intent to die fighting like a man, like his father and his brother would want him to. It was the Winchester way, after all, to ground your heels and spit at the face of Death._

_ But all he did was scream in fear as the monster enveloped him in its dark embrace._

_ Then, shadows._

Dean slapped Sam in the face.

"Hey!" he snapped. Sam's eyes opened. "What's the matter with you?"

Undiluted panic filled his younger brother's eyes. A garbled yell escaped Sam's throat and he scrambled off the bed in a flurry of sheets and newspaper clippings. The sudden right hook took Dean by surprise, which he contemplated with full bitterness as he lay groaning on the hotel floor. Lights swam in his vision.

It was a while before Sam regained his senses, and it took even longer to realize that he was half-naked in a hotel room with his older brother on the floor nursing an injured jaw. Dean glared daggers at him. "I deserved that one," he muttered to himself, more as an anger management method than sincere forgiveness.

Sam frowned, still breathing heavily.

"You know, when I pinched your semi-broken nose. I'm guessing that was what the punch was for. Good one, too. I'll make sure to return the favor."

"What? No! No, Dean. That was…I'm sorry." Sam blurted. "I wasn't myself."

"Then who the hell was it?" Dean growled.

"I…" Visions of darkness and fear lurked in the recesses of his memory like a stain he couldn't wash away, try as he might. He swallowed, his throat parched. "Bad dream, that's all."

"Oh. Geez, Sam. Most kids reach for their teddy bears, not go all Muhammad Ali on their brothers."

"Look, I said I was sorry," Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Where are we on this daeva?"

Dean reached over and stuck a Post-it note on his brother's head. "Place called McAnally's Pub. Met this guy outside the hotel while you were catching z's. Wiccan, judging by the personal decor. We made small talk. I made fun of the Cubs, he almost choked me, and all in all it was a pleasant experience. He got over it eventually, and I asked if he knew if anything strange was happening around town."

Sam finished pulling the sticky yellow note out of his hair. "Well? What did he say?"

"He didn't know much, but he told me about this back-alley pub. Apparently it's a supernatural watering hole for all sorts of weird characters. Information gets passed around, certain things come to light, stuff like that. Told me to watch out for Wardens, though." Dean snorted. "Whatever that means."

Sam watched as Dean put on his flannel shirt and green coat. "We're not going now, are we?" He was still spooked about the dream, and the sun was going down. Long shadows stretched like claw marks through the blinds of the hotel window. Sam shivered.

"Of course we are, dumbass," Dean replied. "Kid said it's got the best beer in the world, which I find doubtful. But hey, beer is beer."

Sam groaned and lay back on the bed, palming his face. "Give me five minutes."

"Three. You snooze you lose, brother."

Dean exited the hotel with a hearty chuckle. A few seconds later the Impala purred to life, her headlights spearing through the window and onto Sam's face. He groaned and got up, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt as he did. Through the glare of the headlights he could see Dean air-drumming to Metallica behind the wheel.

In full volume.

With the windows rolled down.

The trip to McAnally's was near insufferable. Sam wasn't a big rock fan, much less metal, but he knew that voicing his opinion would only make Dean crank up the volume. So, he bore the unintelligible screaming as they drove away. The sun was on the precipice of the horizon when they made it to the pub. Long shadows lengthened by the fading sunrise stretched across the pavement. Sam and Dean got out of the Impala and made their way to the entrance of the building. Several loiterers were smoking by the door, and they fixed the brothers with curious looks as they walked past. Some made to approach them, but Dean shot them poisonous glares, and they backed off.

Sam walked in first, going down a short flight of stairs that led to the actual bar. He stopped for a moment, taking it all in. Dean came up beside him and scanned the pub approvingly. "Not bad," he grunted. "Could use a little ESPN, though."

Stocky pillars carved with a myriad of grim etchings supported the structure. Thirteen ceiling fans whirred sluggishly overhead, and thirteen long wooden tables were arranged crookedly throughout the huge room. The bar was at the far side, where a tall bald man in a pristine white apron lifted a hand in greeting. Dean returned the gesture.

There were already a lot of people in the pub, so much so that the only empty section was the quarter portion of a table full of pale-skinned, tattooed twenty-year-olds. Dean motioned to the area. Sam rolled his eyes and saved a seat, trying his best to ignore the glances and smirks coming from the kids beside him. Dean approached the bar, where the bartender stopped wiping a glass cup and placed both his calloused hands on the edge of the counter. Dean surveyed the stacks behind him.

"Got any Coors Crafted?" he asked.

The bartender reached under the counter and produced a bottle of his favorite drink. Dean's eyes gleamed. "Now you're talking." He took the bottle and placed a fat wad of cash on the counter. The bald man arched an eyebrow before surreptitiously sticking the money in his pocket. Dean popped off the cap and took a long, deep swig. Sensations danced on his tongue and merrily made their way down his throat. "Oh, God, that's heaven. Absolute heaven."

He wiped his lips. "You do something special with this?"

The bartender shrugged and said nothing. Dean smirked.

"Man of few words, I see," he said. "At least tell me your name."

The man grunted. "Mac. You're a Winchester." He nodded. "Same voice."

The bottle froze halfway to his lips. Dean's insides went cold. _He knows who I am_. The possibilities were endless, but knowing from past experience, the vast majority of things that knew who he was did so because his grisly death was on their to-do list. Dean sipped the beer and placed it carefully on the countertop. He faced Mac. "How did you know that?"

Mac took a small slip of paper from his pants pocket and slid it over to Dean, who snapped it up quickly. Dean thought he saw amusement flicker over the bartender's face for a split second, but it was gone as soon as it came. Dean tore his glare away from the retreating man and read the note.

_To my boys: If you're reading this that means you did the smart thing and went to Mac's. He's good people, you can trust him. And I'm fine, so don't you and your little brother piss yourselves over me. You're probably hunting the daeva, like I told you not to do. Meet me here at 6:00 sharp. Watch your backs._

Dean felt a surge of elation as he finished the note. _Dad_. His father, John Winchester, was here in the city and presumably come to meet them. After all those weeks of searching, they were finally going to see each other again. Dean peeked over his shoulder to look at Sam. The lumbering giant was perched awkwardly at the edge of the bench, hands folded calmly on the tabletop.

Sam and their dad hadn't been on the best of terms when they'd last seen each other, but Dean was confident that it would work out this time. They'd hug, laugh, and do what they were always meant to do. Hunt together, be together.

A family.

Dean quickly checked his watch. His heart dropped to his stomach. _6:13. Jesus H. Christ._ His dad was thirteen minutes late to the meeting he himself had set up. Dean swallowed down a large knot of disappointment. He resisted the urge to slam the Coors bottle onto the counter. Damn. If he knew one thing about his dad, it was that John Winchester was never late. That had to mean something bad had happened to him. Sudden thoughts of a tall, yellow-eyed figure cloaked in shadows came to mind. A chill gripped him, and he whirled around.

"Mac!" he called, knocking on the wooden countertop. "Hey! Yoo-hoo! Need to speak with you!"

Mac ambled over to Dean and stared. Dean cleared his throat and leaned over. "When's the last time you spoke to my dad?"

Mac grunted. "Three."

_Dammit. _That was over three hours ago. "Do you have any idea where he set off to?"

Mac shook his head. "Sorry. Can't help you."

Dean bit back a curse and nodded in thanks. He walked over to Sam, the beer still in one hand. He couldn't finish the thing, otherwise he'd be a bit tipsy, and there was no way he was letting Sam drive his baby. His younger brother looked up. "Well?"

"We've got to go."

"Now? Can't I order something first?"

"Dad was here, Sammy."

"…Oh." Sam stood up. "He's here."

"Not anymore." Dean frowned and gave his brother the note. A gradual look of horror appeared on Sam's face as he read the note. "He said six, but it's already-"

"Yeah, I know. Let's go."

"Where?" Sam followed hurriedly as Dean stalked towards the exit. "We don't even know where to look. He could be anywhere in Chicago by now."

The humid night air hit the two as they walked out into the coming darkness.

"I don't give a shit, Sammy," Dean spat. "All I know is that Dad might be in danger. And we're going to save him."

They made it to the Impala, where Dean struggled to fit the key into the lock. "Damn car," he muttered darkly.

"Dean, look out!"

There was a whoosh of air behind him. Dean's instincts kicked in, and he swerved to the side just as a crowbar came sailing down out of nowhere. The metal smashed into the hood of the car, denting it with a screech. Dean's eyes widened. "Oh, hell no," he hissed. "Not my car. Not my baby."

He turned around to see a beefy man in a ratty jacket and slacks raising the weapon for a second strike. Dean cocked back his arm and let loose before he could hit him again. His fist buried into the man's beer belly. The man's face went a dark shade of purple as the air left him. He bent over, wheezing. Dean scowled and kicked the man where it hurt: right between the legs. The crowbar clattered to the ground as his would-be assailant lay curled on the asphalt in a fetal position.

"You okay, Sammy?" When there was no answer, he looked over. "Hey, what's the – oh. Oh shit."

The largest man he'd ever seen stood in front of the Impala, a submachine gun in each hand. Both were pointed at the Winchesters. The man's blocky face was cold stone, void of emotion. Eyes like chips of flint regarded the brothers calmly. They dared Dean to pull out the handgun tucked securely on the back of his jeans, but he thought better. Even if they could get past the guns, Dean knew without a doubt that the man could snap both of them like chopsticks. Thickly corded muscle stood out from beneath the smart suit he wore. Sam, hands up, looked at his older brother uncertainly.

"Okay," Dean said slowly. He carefully lifted his arms in the air. "There's no need to shoot. Let's just talk this out like civilized men-"

Something hit him from behind. There was a flash of searing hot pain on the back of his head, and he hit the hood of the Impala head-first. Dean lay on the ground, out cold. Sam stared, wide-eyed, as the man with the crowbar shakily got to his feet, his fleshy face a mask of red rage. When he returned his gaze to the armed man, he started. The man was right in front of him, as tall as Sam but possessing far more muscle and killer capacity. He'd moved so quietly it was frightening. Still eyes stared at him passively. "The boss will see you now."

Sam sputtered. "Uh…what?"

The man's fist came out of nowhere, slamming into Sam's nose and laying him flat. It still hurt from the previous injury, but now it burned and ached like hell. The next thing he knew, a burlap sack was being pulled over his head, and he was led blindly across the parking lot. After a few seconds of being treated like a dog, he was shoved forward. He yelped, half-expecting to be hit by an oncoming car, but instead landed on plush leather seats. He could hear Dean being thrown in beside him, still unconscious. He was in a car, or some kind of vehicle. Fancy, too, by the seating. Confusion muddled his thoughts as the door closed and the car began to move.

Suddenly, the sack was torn off of him, and he could see his surroundings. They were in a car, so he was right about that. The interior was dark and stylistically practical, with seats on both ends of the car. The windows were up and darkened so that he couldn't see what was outside.

"Cozy, I take it?"

The man seated in front of Sam was a shark.

He knew it. He knew just from one cursory glance. The man was dressed in business casual Armani, with his silk white shirt left unbuttoned at the collar. He was medium-aged, jet-black hair with tasteful graying at the sides covering his head. He had a slight build, more lean than thin, built to be quick and lethally precise. Eyes the color of worn dollar bills bore into Sam, and the Winchester firmly believed at that moment that he was in the presence of a dangerous predator. A cold killer.

The man's hands were resting calmly on the knee of his folded leg. He oozed self-confidence, and Sam knew without a doubt that he could have him and his brother killed any time he wanted to. But he had a feeling that the man had far more nefarious purposes for them than mere murder.

"You must be Sam Winchester," he stated. His voice was smooth and mellow, like someone who'd mastered every facet of his being right down to his speech and physicality. "If that is true, then that one over there…" A look of distaste appeared on his face. "Must be Dean. The one who attacked my employee not too long ago."

"What do you want from us?" Sam said heatedly.

The stranger tilted his head. "Compensation. Your brother rudely interrupted a business matter. You are aware that I should have you both dead. My men do not take kindly to intruders, much less cocky outsiders who humiliate their coworkers and give them a bad name." He smiled, his teeth sharp and white. They passed over a pot hole, and the car jerked. "But you would know something about reputation, wouldn't you, Sam. The famous Winchester brothers, right here to do as I please."

"Enough with the foreplay. I didn't go through all this trouble to do small talk."

Sam turned. "Dean!"

Dean had managed to get the sack off his head, and now he was staring venomously at the businessman in front of them. His head was hurting something awful, like a semi had just ran over his skull multiple times. And his car…he dreaded to think of what those bastards would do to it now that they had them in their clutches. "Son of a bitch. Who the hell are you?"

The man regarded Dean as one would regard a pile of cow manure. "Marcone."

"Well, _Marcone_, you have five seconds to let us go before I rip your frigging throat out."

"Hardly a threat. If you lay a hand on me I'll have my driver stop the car and signal my men to take you out and execute you on the spot." Marcone jutted his chin at Sam. "Your brother, too."

Dean sat back, eyes burning. "How do you know about us?"

Marcone settled in his seat, satisfied. Dean wanted nothing more than to reach over and clobber the smug look out of his face, but doing so would place him and Sam in mortal danger. They'd faced demons and monsters out of humanity's worst nightmares, but there was little they could do in the face of emotionless calculation and big men with guns. Marcone sensed his displeasure and gave a tiny smile.

"Admittedly, I knew nothing before your chance encounter with poor Tommy on Michigan Street. But my resources are vast, and imagine my surprise when I discovered that my employee had been brutalized by a dead man."

Dean smirked. "That's me. Dead man walking. You still want to mess with me?"

Marcone sniffed. "If the fact that you cheated death was supposed to frighten me into submission, I'm afraid you're wrong. You're not the only one to have evaded the authorities in the past. But I have to admit that the events surrounding your supposed death were remarkable. In fact, the corpse found in young Becky's home matched you down to the genetic code. To most, seeing you here breathing and, unfortunately, talking would seem like an impossible miracle." Marcone leaned forward slightly. Sam and Dean could smell the expensive cologne on him. "But for me, I know better."

"Oh yeah?" Dean challenged. "What the hell do you know?"

"Shape-shifter. My contacts confirmed it. An extraordinary being that can match a person's appearance right down to memories, emotions, and genetic makeup. Incredibly recluse and extremely dangerous. And, if I might add, a useful tool if one is able to gain its service."

Dean scoffed. "Fat chance."

"Oh, don't be so sure, Dean. I can be quite persuasive at times, even to those of a less…human disposition."

Dean glared. "You speak from experience?"

Marcone smiled. "Maybe."

"What do you want?" Sam blurted. "Fine. You have us right where you want us. But you kept us alive for a reason."

"Right," Dean continued. "Otherwise we'd be chained up and thrown into Lake Michigan, if I remember correctly."

Marcone chuckled. "Tommy is a brash young man. Such a thing is archaic and unnecessary when I can shoot you and bury you in a ditch on the outskirts of the city. But you are correct. I have you for a reason."

"Then what?" Sam asked.

Marcone's smile widened, and his deep green eyes burned with calculation and intelligence. "An offer. I know of your talents, and I wish to employ them."

Dean blinked. "Hold on. You're offering us…a job?"

Marcone shrugged. "Basically, yes. I can't say that the other boys will cherish your company, but I pay well. And good rewards come to those who follow orders."

Dean shared a brief look with Sam before turning back to Marcone.

"Lookie here, pal," he said in a low voice. "I don't know if you picked it up already, but I'm not the kind of person to follow orders, much less from a criminal snake like you. It's a no. It'll always be a no. Now, let me and my brother go."

Marcone processed this silently. He sighed.

"I can't say that I'm not disappointed. Your services would have been greatly appreciated and justly recognized by my organization. But I expected as much, judging by your insouciance. Trust me, I speak from experience."

"So," Sam said, his heart beating fast. "What now?"

"Now," Marcone said. "I let you go."

The car stopped. The door opened, and several men in suits grabbed Sam and Dean and pushed them out of the car. They were quickly bound and gagged with rough lengths of rope. They were on a dock, where several boats were moored to the wood and gently swaying in the tide. Night had fallen, but the brothers could clearly see the armed men standing by one particular boat nearby. Sam's heart dropped when he realized what was going on.

"Marcone!" he roared as they were led away struggling. "Marcone, you promised!"

"I did no such thing," Marcone replied calmly from the car. They couldn't see him, but Sam could almost picture the haughty smile on his handsome face. "I said that tying you up and throwing you into Lake Michigan was an outdated practice. But, Tommy insisted, and I really don't like either of you."

Dean reeled back as someone punched his face. His collar was grabbed roughly, and hot breath poured onto his ear. "How you doing, Dean?" Tommy hissed gleefully. "Up for a swim?"

Marcone's car peeled from the curb and drove away, leaving Sam and Dean to face a watery death at the hands of Chicago's worst.

_Yup_, Dean thought as they were shoved towards the waiting boat. _Looks like Dad's going to have to wait._

**XXXXX**

John woke up.

"Took you long enough," Thomas said.

His head was aching something awful. John breathed through his nose and tried to get up, but he discovered that he was bound to the chair with tight strands of sheets. He was in a fancy bedroom, his back against the foot of a queen-sized mattress. The curtains were drawn, revealing the black night outside. Crickets chirped from the open window. He struggled again, but the constraints held fast. He swore.

Thomas, the male creature from before (he might've looked human, but nothing human moved that fast), was leaning against the door frame, sharpening a wicked-looking knife that John recognized as a _kukri_. He was engrossed in the task.

"What the hell are you?" John asked.

Thomas didn't look up or stop sharpening. "Would you believe me if I said vampire?"

John scowled. "Probably not."

Thomas shrugged. "Fair enough."

John digested that for a moment. If what the priest said was true...

He licked his dry lips. "Which Court are you from?"

Thomas stopped his task, beautiful grey eyes shifting to meet his. They gleamed curiously for a second. "How did you know about the Courts?"

Father Forthill's kind face phased by in his mind, but John held his tongue. "I'll tell you if you let me go."

Thomas snorted and resumed sharpening. John's hopes died pathetically. "No can do. Under strict orders from Big Sis not to release you."

They were silent for a moment. John worked his wrists, trying to loosen himself from the bindings. As he did so, he wondered how the hell he was supposed to get out and escape. The windows were his best bet, but the vampire could stick him with the _kukri _faster than one could say "Gordon was a maniac". His eyes scanned the room in vain for another escape route. There were only the windows and the door, both of which might as well have been on the moon.

"So," he said, still working his hands. "If you're a vampire, why don't you drink blood?"

Thomas smirked, still whetting the blade. "Excuse me?"

"You should've drained my blood in the alleyway like a normal bloodsucker, but you didn't. You and the other one…did something else."

Their faces had gone completely pale, still as marble and eerily alien. When Madeline had touched him…John shuddered. All he knew was that he hadn't felt so horny in ages. He felt like a complete animal, completely driven by sexual desire and nothing more. The thoughts that had raged through him were too sick and twisted to recount. Thomas sensed his discomfort and allowed himself a little smile.

"Bit different than what you're used to, right?" he said with a chuckle. "We feed on life energy. The stuff that keeps your kind up and moving. My family feasts specifically on wanton sexual need. When Madeline kissed you…" he trailed off, not needing to explain anymore.

John shivered. "So she was feeding on me."

"Correct. She would've drained you dry if you hadn't burned her."

John remembered her scrambling away, clutching at suddenly burnt lips. Something had hurt her, something that _he_ had. "She talked about my marriage," he said, frowning. "About how my wife died a long time ago."

Thomas said nothing else.

The hunter continued to rotate his wrists. If he could just wriggle out of his bindings, he just might have a chance at jumping Thomas. After all, the vampire (or whatever he was) wouldn't expect a full-frontal assault from a weakened mortal like him.

"Oh, and you can stop trying to free yourself," Thomas said, tucking his knife away and crossing his sculpted arms. "My sister should be here any minute now."

There was a knock on the door.

"Well speak of the devil." Thomas opened the door, and a vision walked into the room.

John knew beauty. He'd lived long enough to see it in many shapes and forms. From Daisy, his next-door-neighbor during high school and his first crush to the intense, lush jungles of Vietnam, he could recognize heart-breaking splendor in a second.

But the goddess that crossed the threshold of the room personified female sensuality in a way he'd never seen before. Dark curls cascaded down her lovely pale face like those hair product commercials. No, even better. She was the manifestation of the beauty Greek and Roman sculptors long ago sought to capture in their work but never quite seemed to master. She was sex, desire, and longing all rolled into the most physically beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

But John wasn't dumb. Despite the aching below his hips that told him otherwise, beneath that marvelously magnificent business skirt and suit, beneath that exquisite, milky pale skin, beneath all of that there was a cold-hearted monster that would suck the life out of him even as she rode him to oblivion.

And what terrified him was that he, for a split second, actually _welcomed_ that end.

"Thomas," she said without taking her gorgeous eyes off of John. Her voice was low and sulky; John's heartbeat increased.

"Lara," Thomas replied, arms still crossed.

"Leave us." Lara ordered.

Thomas sighed and left, flanked by the two men in suits who had accompanied Lara at the door. The white oak door shut, leaving John alone with the most beautiful monster he'd laid eyes on. Lara began to circle him, heels clicking measuredly on the wooden floor. John felt like the Impala when he'd first gotten it from the dealership in Mary's hometown all those years ago. He could feel Lara's eyes searching him, cataloging every physical facet of his being and storing it in her brain for later use. John fidgeted unconsciously.

"Well, well, well," she said once she returned to her previous position in front of him. She folded her arms across her ample chest, hips cocked to one side. John struggled to keep his eyes just on her face. His body wanted to take it all in, but falling to his temptation would only encourage her. "The infamous John Winchester. I've heard a lot about you."

"Bad things, I take it." John's voice was irritatingly hoarse.

Lara laughed, and the hunter wanted to get lost in the sound, drown in it. "You've made a name for yourself in certain areas of the country. Bad things tend to be said. But most I have spoken to bear a burning hatred and paralyzing fear for you and your ilk."

"My ilk?"

Lara smiled. "Hunters. Petty mortals who take it upon themselves to fight back against the night and the terrors it holds. Brave, but stupid. Laughingly stupid."

The insult snapped John right out of his trance. "Is that right?"

Lara chuckled. "Oh John, you poor thing. Cattle aren't supposed to fight back. They aren't supposed to run around with their little trinkets killing and hunting things like me. It isn't the natural order of things." Lara came closer, and John broke out in a cold sweat. She was close enough for him to smell the tantalizing perfume she wore. Or maybe that was how she normally smelled like. "Why do you think men and women like you don't get to retire and live a happy life with children and grandchildren? Come now. It isn't hard to figure out, John. You don't deserve happiness when you screw around with nature."

John worked his jaw. "If your goal was to really piss me off, it's working. Why don't you untie me so we can continue this conversation in a proper, polite manner."

Lara's laugh sounded like the tinkling of crystalline bells. "I don't think you understand, John. You're mine now. You don't get to tell me what to do."

John fumed. "I'm nobody's slave, bitch."

Lara's eyes flickered a disturbing shade of grey. "I'll forgive you for that. But just this once. Don't try my patience, little kine, or I'll find ways to hurt you that you'll be screaming for more."

And John knew she could do that without a problem. He shut up, but inside his rage was churning like coals in an oven. He had to escape. It was way past six, and his boys were probably wandering around town looking for him. At night. In the dark. Where a daeva could pounce up and slaughter you in the blink of an eye.

"Please," he said, having to choke the word out. "Let me go. You don't understand."

Lara's face went completely blank. Eerily so. "Oh, but I do. I know everything about you, John. I know about your past. Your sons. How they're in the city as we speak, and in mortal danger."

John had to breathe through his nose to keep calm. "You bitch," he hissed, voice wavering. "You let me go right now or I swear, there won't anything on this Earth that will stop me from coming for you."

Lara cocked her head, the desolation still on her beautiful features. Features that looked like nothing but stone. "Those threats are as empty as you are, son of Henry. You are nothing but a pawn." She leaned forward, gaze distant. "You know what your children are. How essential they will be in the coming darkness."

John shivered. "You stay away from them."

"I need not shy from Sam and Dean. They will come to me."

John was about to spit in her face when a scream rent the charged silence. It came from outside the house, and was quickly followed by quick bursts of gunfire. Lara's head snapped back like a whip, facing the door. She was completely still. Not human still, but statue still, perfectly immobile. She crouched, hands curled like claws. A hiss escaped her mouth. "It cannot be!"

There was the sound of glass breaking somewhere in the building. Alarms began to wail throughout the house. The door opened, and Thomas poked his head in, a nasty cut on his forehead. "Grenade at the south veranda," he said, damnably calm. "Unknown hostiles surrounding the château."

More gunfire erupted on the grounds, followed by more and more agonized screams. Lara stood, peering out the window and into the night. There were ground lights in the encircling garden, but they didn't pierce the outer blackness. "Are my sisters up?" she asked, calm as ever.

"Elisa and Natalia are engaging the intruders. Madeline was having dinner last time I checked."

"Indolent little bitch," Lara murmured. "Fine. I will see to the perimeter. Guard the Winchester prisoner."

Thomas eyed John. "I have to stay?"

Lara glared at him. "Do as I say, Thomas." She disappeared, the only sign of her wake the creaking of the just opened door.

The male vampire sighed, unsheathed his _kukri_, and walked towards John. The hunter stared at the large, shining knife. "What are you going to poke with that?"

Thomas smiled. "You know, Lara's not going to be happy when she hears about this, but screw her."

The knife went down in a silver flash. John opened his eyes to see that the cord of sheets binding his wrists were slashed apart. He stretched his arms, groaning. "Thanks. Thought you were going to kill me."

Thomas half-smiled. "I'm not like that."

John grunted. "Sure you are."

The vampire just shook his head. "Most of the men guarding the entrance to the manor are all dead. All I got on the comms was static. The attack is centered on the South Wing, so we've got to get the hell away from there. It'll take whoever's attacking us quite a while to fully infiltrate the grounds, so that should give us plenty of time."

"How big is this place?" John wondered aloud.

"Several acres. Lara doesn't believe in petty things like limits."

As they made their way down the hall, John discovered that it wasn't just a house. It was a fucking mansion. The floors were a beautiful hardwood, with custom carve woodworking and whole suits of authentic armor arrayed at the edges of the wide corridor. Stained glass windows caught the eye, real ones probably painted centuries ago. Gorgeous portraits were framed against the pale walls.

"Nice place," John grunted as walked. Screams echoed throughout the grounds.

Thomas laughed. "I can't stand it. Too much Lara."

There was an ominous boom somewhere far behind them. Thomas stopped. "Ah. That'd the cannon."

John coughed. "You have genuine cannon?"

"Of course. We didn't build the turrets just for show."

John corrected himself. It wasn't just a mansion. It was a castle. "Sounds impressive. How long will it hold?"

Thomas shrugged as they rounded the corner. Three maids rushed past them, whimpering and clutching at black handbags. "Depends. If we find a way to kill these guys, then we'll definitely hold. If not, this place will fall in about two hours."

John looked back at the empty, yawning hall behind them. Any second a shadowy monster could jump out of nowhere and give chase. "Do you know who's attacking?"

"I got a good look. As far as I know, normal people."

John stopped. "You're telling me normal people are attacking your giant medieval castle and _winning_."

Thomas nodded. "Looks like it. Just normal guys and gals out in the grounds. I even saw our gardener out there." He looked at John with very serious eyes. "But no matter how many bullets they took, they didn't go down. It's like Dawn of the Dead out there. Conventional weapons aren't working, so that means our armed men are at a horrible disadvantage."

Sudden fear gripped John. "Oh, no. God, no."

Thomas frowned. "What is it?"

"Those aren't zombies out there. Not even close."

Shrill screams caused John's heart to leap. Thomas froze, just like his sister earlier. "Shit!" he whispered. "Something's ahead."

Someone, a woman, was crying around the next corner. She was pleading, saying no over and over, until it rose into a crescendo of screams. There was a stomp, the sound of something breaking, and a sickening squishing noise. Someone started laughing merrily.

"Thomas," John said very slowly. He began to step back. "Away from the corner."

"Like hell," Thomas snarled. "Those were the maids. I knew them, grew up with them."

Thomas was about to leap when a maid ran out from the around the bend, weeping nonstop. Her blouse was covered with dark blood, and there were several scratches on her face. Thomas dropped his _kukri_ and gripped her shoulders. "Maria! Maria, look at me!" He shook her gently. "What did you see?"

Maria continued to sob, shaking uncontrollably. Thomas rubbed her arms. "Please, Maria, you have to tell me what you saw."

John approached them warily. "Thomas…" he began.

"Maria," Thomas asked again when her tears subsided. "What did you see?"

"I…I saw…" she said, her voice breaking. John's heart was beating faster than it had in a long time. "I saw…"

"What?" Thomas asked gently. "Maria, tell me what you saw."

Maria looked up, and her eyes were devoid of life, and completely and utterly black. "I'm sorry," she said with a grin. Her teeth were stained with blood and bits of torn flesh. "Maria isn't here right now. Please leave a message after the beep."

She snarled and sunk her fist deep into Thomas' belly. The vampire's handsome face contorted in confusion, betrayal, and pain. "Maria…?" he gasped.

The former maid removed her hand, and loops of grey intestines hung out from the wound. Thomas cried out in agony and pushed the maid away. Maria's smile widened, and she gripped the vampire's arms and flung him to the side. He flew, weightless, until he was smashed against two suits or armor. They fell with an almighty crash, and he was soon motionless beneath the heavy metal that had decorated his home. John froze in absolute fear. His one security detail had been easily dispatched in six seconds flat.

Maria placed a hand on her hip and grinned at John. "Hey, Johnny. Want to play?"

The demon roared and rushed the hunter.

**XXXXX**

If there was one thing I was better at than the two muscle heads behind me, it was running.

I run. No, I'm not one of those fitness nuts who run every morning and are as thin as a whip. I run so that when I've got to escape a potential ass-kicking, I'll actually be successful. I'm faster than your average wizard, mostly because I've seen a lot more action than they have and most of them are fat stuffy assholes. Plus, I've got these redwood legs that help me outdistance most of my friends, save for the supernatural ones that can shift into large wolves and whatnot.

"Harry!" Michael yelled from behind me. The giant-ass spiders were close behind, only held back by occasional fatal swings from _Amoracchius _and _Esperacchius_. "Is there an exit?"

I looked around the damp sewer tunnel. "Help me out here, Bob," I gasped. "Which way?"

"Left." Bob sounded annoyingly comfortable in his comfy little knapsack, but I took a breath and barreled left. Michael and Sanya came clanking along soon after, followed closely by Shelob's bastard children. I continued to run, finally stopping at what seemed to be the promise of our demise: a dead end.

"Dammit!" I swore repeatedly. Michael didn't even acknowledge them. "It's a dead end. It's a fucking. Dead. End." I tried to configure ways to destroy Bob rather than hold back the veritable swarm of monsters coming up to kill us. Even in a life-and-death situation my priorities were out of whack.

"Harry," Sanya said. "Look to your right."

I did so, and came face to face with a rusty but usable service ladder.

Oh. Wow. Gosh.

"Go on, Harry," Michael said, breathing heavily. It had to be hot as hell in those fancy Knights of the Cross suits, and I felt bad that I had potentially led them on a wild goose chase only to be eaten by overgrown arachnids. But my own self-preservation instincts kicked in, and I started up the ladder. "I better see you up there, you two!" I called as I reached the hatch and wheeled it open.

"Count on it!" Michael grunted.

He roared, the sword shining like a star, and cleaved into the horde of spiders. Sanya's bellow rivaled his, and soon both Knights were hacking away at the spiders, the temperature increasing rapidly just by the Swords alone.

I pushed open the hatch with a yell and climbed up. I lay on the ground for a few moments, just grateful to be out of Undertown and away from the nightmares below. I gasped for air, and although the temperature of wherever I lay was still hot, it felt like Christmas compared to the humid tunnels underneath me.

I sat up, making sure I had everything with me. Pentacle, check. Shield bracelet, check. Blasting rod, check. Staff, fuck me. Duster, check. Dignity, tarnished but retained. I slumped against the wall and took a gander at my surroundings. I was in the basement of some old abandoned building no doubt. It was probably the boiler room of an old hotel. Faded warning signs still hung on the grey walls, and steam poured out from various machines.

I stood up, stretching. The hatch beside me opened, and Sanya came out, grinning. "_Eto bylo veselo!_" he cried out. "I want to do it again."

Michael climbed up after him, _Amoracchius _still in hand. "We took care of most of them. The others fled. I'm sure they'll be back."

I shook my head. "Probably not. Things like them tend to stay underground as much as possible. They'll only come out in times of great crisis, like starvation, but even then rarely. I doubt they'll risk giving chase after three puny little humans who roasted and filleted their hairy butts."

Michael nodded. "True. So, what now?"

I smiled and looked forward. The exit was right there, and that would lead us to a network of rooms and elevator hatches. If Bob's instincts were correct, then a thorough search of the building would eventually lead us to the daeva. "Okay, so here's what we're going to-"

"Harry, duck!"

There were only two options to that statement. Either I comply with the order and get my head down as fast as possible, or I turn around and see if I can spot the plucky little bird that had managed to find its way down here. Wisely, I swore and got down.

"_In nomine Dei!_" Michael's thunderous challenge echoed off the boiler room walls. _Amoracchius_ swung in a blinding, horizontal slash. The shadows behind me that had gotten mysteriously thicker (beyond my notice, even) suddenly dissipated with an ear-splitting screech. My heart jumped. The shadows unfurled audibly and sped around the room, moving at a dizzying speed. Michael and Sanya stood on either side of me, Swords out.

"Harry," Sanya said. "Give us some light."

I got to my feet. "Don't have my stupid staff," I snarled.

Here it was. The object of our hunt. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I tried to track the movement of the shadow. My contacts weren't kidding; the daeva was fast as hell. Sanya cursed in Russian.

"Use other light!"

I swallowed. "You asked for it, Ruskie."

I raised the tip of my blasting rod towards the ceiling. "_Fuego!_" I roared.

The flames erupted from the rod with a vengeful scream. Blue-white illuminated the room as bright as day, and for a brief second I thought I could see the outline of a hideous humanoid figure wrapped in black rags against the wall. Its eyes were wide and yellow, and filled with fear and fury. I smiled. "Eat this, bastard!"

I directed the fire at the outline before it could dissipate and poured my will into the attack. The fire screamed, and it got so hot my eyebrows damn near fried off. The scorching hot flames devoured the wall, and in the midst of the roaring of the conflagration I could hear a pathetic squealing below it all. I gasped and shut off the channel of energy. The flames died with a giant hiss.

The wall before us was a black ruin of smoldering concrete and grey smoke. It stretched across both ends of the wall, corner to corner, damaging it beyond repair. I slumped to the ground, gazing at it with grim satisfaction. Sanya rested a hand on my shoulder.

"You killed it, Harry," he said, amazed.

"No," I replied bitterly. I didn't want to break his little heart, but the truth was the truth. "I only hurt it. You can only kill it in a specific time and place, so I did nothing but piss it off." I rose, my body hurting everywhere. "Let's go. It's still probably somewhere in the building healing, so if we hurry we can finish it off."

Sanya nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

And it seemed like a good plan. A perfect one, even.

That was when the second daeva emerged from the blanket of shadows beside us and ripped its claws across Sanya's chest.

The Kevlar tore open like a candy wrapper.

I watched in horror as Sanya flew like a rag doll across the room. His eyes were wide in confusion, wet and innocent against the dirty smudges on his face. He hit the wall with a sickening thud and landed ungracefully on the floor, completely still. _Esperacchius _glowed with a dull light, then went dark. I stood still, at a loss for words. I couldn't get them through the fury and guilt raging through me.

Michael let loose a scream and slashed at the daeva. The Sword burned white-hot, but the monster avoided the blow and attacked the Knight, scoring bloody slashes with its claws. Claws as long as a kitchen knife, and much sharper. Michael's small cries of pain brought hot tears of anger to my eyes.

A second one. There was another daeva. I took off my bag and threw it against the wall. I pointed my blasting rod at the daeva, ready to burn its ass to a crisp.

Suddenly, a pressure tightened behind me, like the air itself was ready to combust.

Evil. Dark, twisted, ugly evil rose from behind me like a tidal wave of adulterated filth. It touched my spirit, and I felt violated. Violated by its mere presence. We wizards react to Darkness in different ways, but pure evil like that affected us in a fundamental sense. It twisted us, brought thoughts of malcontent and ire to our minds so much so that we had a method of dealing with it: we took off the heads of whoever had succumbed.

I turned around, every inch of my body fighting that action.

It was a girl.

She was short, almost Murphy short. She had pixie cut of blonde hair, and was quite cute. In fact, I might've been compelled to ask her out if the situation was different, and if she wasn't oozing complete and utter malevolence. She had on a red leather jacket and jeans, and her eyes stared at me with an intensity that belied her apparent normalcy. She looked human, yeah.

But this girl sure wasn't human.

"Wizard," she said in a light, mocking voice. "We've been wanting to talk to you for a long time."

She stepped closer, and I stepped back. The girl smiled.

"Looks like your friend needs a little help there," she said, looking over my shoulder casually. "Want to help him out?"

I gulped. Take it easy, Harry. You've got this.

"I would, but I've got a feeling you'd stab me in the back the moment I turned around."

She laughed, and it was just _wrong_. There was nothing right about her.

Out of the blue, Lasciel's voice whispered urgently into my ear. _You must flee, my Host. Go, leave the Knight. Save yourself!_

_Like hell. Go back to your room, young woman._

_ She is a demon! This foe is beyond you. Take the coin! If you will not run, please take up the coin. It is the only way to survive._

Ignoring Lasciel, I smirked, red hot rage replacing the fear I had shamefully resigned to. "Look. You're something else, I'll give you that. But my detective senses are tingling, and they're telling me that you're the bitch behind all of this."

She regarded me like one regards a full course meal. "Oh, yes. You'll be lots of fun." She curtsied teasingly. "Call me Meg."

"Dresden." I lifted my blasting rod. I focused my entire wrath and will into the attack, wanting nothing more than to see this girl and her daeva pets roasting alive for the things they did._ "Fuego!_" I snarled."_Pyrofuego!_"

A pillar of white fire, stronger and hotter than anything I'd conjured before, exploded from my focus and turned the room into a furnace of hellish flame brighter than the sun. I held the burning fire magic with both arms, screaming my fury all the while.

When it ended, it ended with a furious bang and with me lying on the blackened floor.

I struggled to my feet, rod out and searching for her. The exit and the walls around it had been caved in from the blast, the metal support frames twisted under the heat of the fire. Smoke rose from the destroyed walls with a quiet hiss. I gasped, hands on my knees. "God," I breathed. "I am so done."

"That all you got, tiger?"

For some reason, I wasn't that surprised. In fact, I really should've expected it. Angel tells you to bail and sounds serious, you obey, Fallen or not. But my emotions had gotten the better of me, and in one blaze of glory, I'd nearly depleted my magical output.

I looked up to see Meg standing in front of me, arms crossed. Her whole body was scorched beyond recognition, like an overcooked barbecued chicken, and her clothes were completely gone. Incinerated, no doubt. But her skin was repairing itself with lightning speed, flaky crispness giving way to a perfectly healthy pale epidermis. I watched in dumb, horrified fascination as the healing process was completed.

Meg stood before me, naked and none the worse for wear.

"You're gifted," she said lightly, but I saw the vein twinge on her forehead. Fuck. I'd only pissed her off. My blasting rod clattered to the floor; I was too weak to get a good grip on it. "I'll give you that. But you had your chance, sweetheart. Now, it's my turn."

* * *

**AN: Pretty long, I know. Not my best, but I wanted to update for those of you who care. Much love for all the feedback; it's much appreciated. As always, leave a review on your way out. Thanks for reading!**


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